Chapter 5 – First Crack in the Ice

POV: Elena Montrose

The air conditioning hissed through the vents like a whisper I couldn’t shake. I’d barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the photo in Damien’s study. My face—young, vulnerable—immortalized in that frame.

He kept it.

That truth clung to my skin like sweat under silk. But I wasn’t here to read into gestures. I was here for the truth—and to burn him down with it.

I padded barefoot into the kitchen, the marble floor cold against my feet. A dull ache throbbed at the base of my skull. I hadn’t eaten all day, and my body was beginning to revolt.

But before I could reach the fridge, the room tilted.

I grabbed for the counter, missed, and stumbled. My vision blurred, and then blackened. I felt the ground rushing toward me—but Amy caught me before I hit the floor.

“Hey, Elena?” A voice sharp with panic. “Stay with me.”

Damien.

The scent of him was undeniable—clean cedar, faint leather, and something darker. I tried to push away, but my limbs didn’t obey. My world narrowed to the press of his hand against my forehead.

“You’re burning up,” he muttered. “Damn it.”

Everything blurred after that. The room faded into softness. I think I murmured something—maybe a name, but the darkness swallowed it whole.

When I woke again, it was to the muted hum of conversation. Someone Damien was speaking on the phone.

“…no, she just collapsed. Yes, I called Dr. Hartwell… No, I don’t think she’s been eating. Damm it, I don’t know why.”

A pause.

“Just get here fast.”

He was pacing. I didn’t open my eyes, not yet. I needed to see who he was when no one was watching.

“I can’t have her falling apart on me now,” he said under his breath. “Not after everything.”

There was something strange in his voice. Not annoyance, not indifference but concern.

I stirred, and his footsteps stopped.

“Elena?”

My eyes fluttered open, vision adjusting to the soft bedroom light. I was in one of the guest rooms, tucked beneath a soft blanket. A wet cloth rested on my forehead, and there was a glass of water on the nightstand.

“You fainted,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed. His tie was undone, sleeves rolled up. He looked less like a CEO and more like a man who’d been pacing for hours.

“Really?” I rasped. “Hadn’t noticed.”

His mouth twitched. “Still sarcastic. You’ll live.”

“You sound disappointed.”

He leaned back slightly, arms crossed. “I’m not in the habit of burying my wives, fake or not.”

“Touching.”

We fell into silence again. But it wasn’t the usual heavy kind. It was something quieter. Tentative.

“Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t eating?” he asked finally.

“Didn’t realize I had to file a food report.”

“Elena—”

“I didn’t think you’d care.”

That stopped him.

His brows pulled together slightly. “I don’t… know what I’m supposed to feel about you.”

I tilted my head. “What do you feel?”

He hesitated. “Like I’m staring at something familiar and foreign at the same time.”

My heart skipped. But I kept my face neutral.

“You don’t need to be anything to me,” I whispered. “This marriage was a contract. We both signed. We both benefit.”

“I know.” He stood, walking toward the window. “Still. You could’ve died.”

I studied him at that moment. His silhouette was outlined by the city lights, his shoulders rigid, and his jaw tight. This man - the cold-blooded business titan who’d supposedly destroyed my family was showing cracks in his armor.

For a second, I wasn’t sure which of us was faking more.

Later that evening, I returned to my room.

The night had grown quiet again. Damien had all but retreated into himself. Whatever moment we’d had—whatever truth had trembled on the edge of his tongue was gone. Just like him.

I closed my bedroom door and leaned against it, rubbing the ache in my temples.

That’s when I saw it.

A plain white envelope on my pillow.

No name. No handwriting. Just a folded piece of thick stationery with the faint scent of musk and something floral—too faint to place.

My fingers trembled as I opened it.

There were only eight words inside, scribbled in a rushed, unfamiliar hand:

“He didn’t ruin your family. I did.”

My breath caught.

The note slipped from my fingers, fluttering to the floor like the lie I’d been clinging to.

I dropped to my knees, staring at it. My mind spun in a thousand directions.

He didn’t ruin your family.

Then who did?

Elena starts tracing handwriting samples, convinced the person who left the note is closer than she thought. Meanwhile, Damien receives a confidential file from an informant, one that links his current wife to someone presumed dead… Elena Montrose