Chapter Three – Dangerous Games

Elena Montrose 

Some says hell is fire, others say it’s cold, calculated silence shared between two people who once knew each other’s hearts.

For me, hell has Damien Crest’s last name.

And a penthouse with glass walls and steel bones.

By the time I returned from a brief meeting with my stylist, my belongings had already been unpacked into a curated corner of Damien’s world. Designer boxes, minimalist palettes, and accessories that whispered wealth and screamed manipulation.

Vivienne would’ve been proud.

But beneath the glamour, every step into his home felt like walking into a chessboard. The air was heavier here—thick with control. Every object was perfectly placed, not a speck of dust in sight. Like Damien himself, the space had no room for mess, for mistakes, for softness. This wasn’t a home. It was a fortress.

I stood at the threshold of what he called “our bedroom.” A term that made my skin itches.

It was beautiful—marble floors, high ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the skyline. But sterile. Too clean. Like no one had ever actually lived here.

Except one thing felt off.

A small picture frame sat tucked into the bookshelf near his desk. It wasn’t visible unless you stepped inside the room and turned a very specific angle.

My heart caught.

It was me.

Not Elena Crest, or Elena Blackwood, or whatever the press was calling me now.

It was me—Elena Montrose.

Younger, softer, and smiling in that carefree way I hadn’t smiled in years. The photo was from a charity gala five years ago. The night he first kissed me in public.

He still had it.

Hidden, but not forgotten.

Why?

I stepped closer, careful not to touch it. Was it guilt? Sentiment? Or a reminder?

Before I could dwell, his voice cut through the air like a whip.

“You moved in fast.”

I turned slowly. Damien stood at the doorway, sleeves rolled up, and tie askew—loose in a way that looked intentionally effortless. But I knew better. Nothing about Damien was accidental.

“You had my things packed before I could even choose my closet,” I said coolly. “Thought I’d make myself at home.”

His eyes flicked to the photograph. For the first time, I saw something crack in his expression.

He moved past me, grabbed the frame, and slid it into the drawer of his desk.

“I thought we agreed on boundaries,” he said, now walking to the bar. “This isn’t a marriage. It’s a performance.”

“Every performance needs chemistry,” I replied. “Even the audience can tell when the actors hate each other.”

“I don’t hate you,” he said, pouring a drink.

I raised an eyebrow. “Then what do you feel, Damien? Indifference? Pity? Boredom?”

He looked at me then, straight through me. “Control”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“This situation works,” he continued. “Two powerful names. One united front. Strategic alliances. Shareholder confidence. Press coverage. In exchange, you get protection, reputation restoration, and a seat back at the table. But there are rules, Elena.”

He listed them like clauses in a contract:

“One“: No digging into my personal affairs.

“Two“: We attend every public event together.

“Three“: In front of cameras, we’re affectionate. Behind closed doors, we keep our distance.

“Four“: You don’t question me.

“Five“: You don’t bring up the past.”

I laughed, sharp and low. “You think I came back just to be arm candy?”

“I don’t care why you came back,” he said, downing the drink in one gulp. “Just follow the rules.”

I stepped closer, deliberately. “And if I don’t?”

He leaned in, lowering his voice. “Then you’ll find I can be a worse enemy than you remember.”

The tension crackled like a live wire between us. But this time, I didn’t back down.

“I’m not the same woman you left behind,” I said.

“No,” he murmured. “She had a fire. You have armor.”

He walked away, leaving the room suffocating in silence.

The next few days were a lesson in psychological warfare.

We went from boardrooms to charity dinners, red carpets to high-stakes luncheons. Every appearance was calculated. The media called us the “Crest Power Couple“ Glossy headlines painted us as a love story reborn.

They had no idea.

In private, we barely spoke unless necessary. But I watched him.

Damien was obsessively disciplined. He rose at five.

Trained in his gym like a soldier.

Reviewed reports like a machine.

He didn’t tolerate weakness—not in himself, not in his staff, not in me.

Yet sometimes, I’d catch him looking at me with something unspoken. Not warmth. Not regret. But something more dangerous - Recognition.

I needed to know the truth.

Was he part of my family’s destruction—or just another pawn in someone else’s game?

One night, I found myself back in the study, staring at the drawer where he’d hidden my photo.

I pulled it open.

The frame was gone.

In its place, a handwritten note on Crest Industries letterhead.

“We all keep secrets, Elena. Some of us just hide them better.”

A chill swept down my spine.

He knew something.

Or he was playing me.

Either way, the game had begun.

Elena receives an anonymous package—containing surveillance footage from five years ago. What she sees changes everything. Could Damien have been protecting her all along… or manipulating her deeper into his trap?