Chapter 4 – Unspoken Wounds

POV: Elena Montrose (under her new identity)

The sound of my heels clicking against the polished marble echoed through Damien’s penthouse like a challenge. It had been less than twenty-four hours since the wedding, and the air between us was already an intricate web of silence, tension, and veiled motives. The space around me was beautiful, and clinical, like Damien himself.

Gray slate walls.

Minimalist art.

Not a single personal item is out of place.

Just like his heart.

I moved past the glass railing overlooking the city skyline and into the open-plan kitchen. I wasn’t hungry. I was never hungry around him. Not when my appetite was fed by something else entirely - revenge.

He stood by the window, his back to me, speaking into his phone in clipped tones.

“…I don’t care what they’re offering. Double it. If Montrose Holdings has even a whisper of resurgence, I want to be the first to know.”

I froze.

Montrose Holdings.

My father’s company. My family’s legacy. The empire Damien helped burn to the ground.

I leaned against the marble island and let the cold seep into my palms to steady myself. He hung up a second later, pivoting toward me.

“You eavesdrop now?” His voice was sharp but flat, like glass about to shatter.

“You speak loudly enough for the walls to answer back.” I offered him a faint smile. “Besides, Montrose Holdings? Thought that ghost was buried.”

He stiffened. “It is.”

“But you’re still checking for a pulse.”

He walked past me and opened a cabinet, retrieving a bottle of mineral water. “I don’t like surprises.”

“Neither do I.”

He looked at me for a long second. It wasn’t desire or warmth or even curiosity in his stare—it was scrutiny. Like I was a puzzle he hadn’t agreed to play with, but now couldn’t stop trying to solve.

“You want to talk about ghosts?” he said, finally. “Let’s talk about yours.”

I laughed softly, brushing nonexistent dust off the counter. “I don’t have ghosts. Just shadows that never learned how to behave.”

“You come out of nowhere, accept a marriage contract with the devil himself, and move into his penthouse without blinking,” he said, his voice as even as ever. “Either you’re fearless or suicidal.”

I tilted my head. “Maybe I’m both.”

We stood there, two strangers bonded by a name on a legal document and a storm neither of us would admit to starting. I walked over to the wall of glass and stared at the lights of the city.

“Tell me something,” I said quietly. “Did you ever know anyone from the Montrose family?”

Damien blinked. The pause before he answered was just long enough to make the air feel heavier.

“Elena Montrose,” he said, finally. “Daughter of Robert Montrose. Fiancé of a man who betrayed her.”

“Did he?”

“Publicly, yes. Privately…” His voice trailed off. “I don’t know. The media destroyed her before the truth could.”

Before you could, you mean?.

“Do you think she’s alive?” I asked.

He narrowed his eyes. “She disappeared without a trace. Her accounts were frozen. Her father went into exile. I’m not a believer in resurrection.”

I hummed. “Then you don’t know much about ghosts. They like to come back when you least expect them.”

He was silent for a moment, and then changed the subject entirely. “Dinner with the board tomorrow. Wear something that says you’re ruthless.”

“I was born ruthless.”

He walked away, but I caught the flicker of something—maybe irritation, maybe doubt—before he disappeared into his study.

---

Later that night, I wandered the corridors of the penthouse like a phantom. There was a room I hadn’t been inside yet. The door was slightly ajar.

I pushed it open gently.

The walls were darker here, the light dimmer. It was a private library—shelves of books, thick curtains, and a single framed photograph tucked into the corner of the desk.

I walked toward it with slow steps.

The photo was five years old. I would’ve known it anywhere. Because it was “me“.

Not the woman I pretended to be now, but the girl I was before the world crumbled beneath my feet. Long hair, soft eyes, laughter. Innocence. A ghost in print?.

Why did he still have this?

The door creaked behind me. I turned slowly to find him standing there, watching me.

“You went through my things.”

“I walked into a room.”

He stepped in, closing the door behind him. “Why that photo? Why did you stop there?”

“Because it’s strange,” I said, stepping closer to him. “You talk about Elena Montrose like she’s dust. And yet, you keep her picture in your private study. Almost as if... you miss her.”

His jaw tightened. “It’s irrelevant.”

“To you or me?”

A dangerous silence filled the space between us. I watched him carefully, wondering if some part of him had recognized me. But no—his confusion was real, not staged. He didn’t know. Not yet.

“Whatever fantasy you’re chasing,” he said finally, “don’t chase it in my study again.”

“Understood,” I said, brushing past him.

But I didn’t miss the way he lingered after I left.

Or how his hand closed around the edge of the photo.

---

The next day came like a storm.

Damien was on a call when I stepped into the dining room. His eyes locked on mine for a beat before he motioned for his assistant to stay quiet.

“I want names. Anyone who has been pulling files connected to Montrose. Find out who’s digging. And shut it down.”

I kept my expression neutral as I poured myself a cup of tea.

Someone was digging into my past.

It wasn’t me. Not directly.

This meant someone else out there wanted the truth to come to light—and Damien was scared of what that truth might be.

I watched him end the call and look at me like I was a question he didn’t know how to ask.

“What?” I asked.

“Where were you five years ago?”

“Why?”

“You remind me of someone.”

I offered him a smile that held just enough mystery to burn. “Then she must’ve been unforgettable.”

--- 

As Elena leaves the room, Damien walks into his study and pulls up a file—one that was supposedly destroyed years ago. The name at the top? “Elena Montrose“.

And there’s new activity logged under it… from inside his own company.