NO LEAD

Elena’s POV

He really strangled me.

The memory hadn’t faded, not even a little. His hand, crushing and merciless, had wrapped around my neck like I was nothing more than a pawn that had failed him.

But I hadn’t begged. I hadn’t cried. I had walked away.

Not from the mission.

Not from the truth.

Just from him.

I packed my bag in silence, collected the few things I’d dared to call mine in that house, and stepped out of the room that had once felt like a temporary haven.

I didn’t leave the estate. That would’ve been too easy. Too simple for someone like Damien to forget me.

Instead, I moved into the one place no one cared to enter, the appliance room.

It was tucked behind the kitchen, reeking faintly of detergent, oil, and time. But it had a door. It had space. And it was far away from Damien Blackwood.

I dragged in an old blanket and propped myself against the wall, the hum of machinery and the occasional rattle of pipes keeping me company through the long nights.

He didn’t come looking for me.

Not once.

The first few nights were the worst.

Not because of the cold, or the cramped space, or the stiffness in my back. But because I kept hearing his voice, his accusation, his warning.

“You have one month.”

One month to unearth a decade-old conspiracy. One month to expose Adrian and Charlotte for what they really were. One month to clear my name before he sent me back to the cell I had barely escaped.

Every second since then had been counted. I didn’t have time for fear, or anger, or tears. I only had time to figure out how to prove I wasn’t the enemy.

The only problem?

I had nothing.

No evidence. No leads. Just fragments of rumors, a broken timeline, and the unshakable feeling that Adrian and Charlotte were hiding something deeper than anyone had uncovered.

So I started digging.

Slowly.

Quietly.

I combed through everything I could access public records, archived company news, employee files, board meetings. I watched interviews, read obscure blog posts, and stalked their old social media posts.

But nothing surfaced. Nothing solid. Just a pile of smoke with no fire in sight.

Still, I took notes. Made lists. Built timelines. If I couldn’t find the truth yet, I’d at least build the map that would lead me to it.

At work, we didn’t speak.

He walked past me like I didn’t exist.

I returned the favor.

But that didn’t mean I didn’t feel him.

Every time I caught a glimpse of him down the hallway, every time I stepped into a meeting room he’d just left, the tension in the air prickled against my skin.

Sometimes, I caught him looking at me just for a second. His gaze would flicker to my throat. Cold. Unreadable.

But he never said a word.

Neither did I.

It was easier to pretend nothing had happened than to unpack the chaos between us.

One afternoon, I ran into Hilda in the break room. She was holding a stack of files and eyed me carefully over the rim of her glasses.

“You’re quieter than usual,” she said, setting the files down. “Everything okay?”

I gave her the kind of smile you give a stranger on the train polite, detached. “Just tired. Lots going on.”

She didn’t look convinced. “You and Mr. Steele haven’t been in the same room in over a week.”

I shrugged. “We don’t need to be.”

“Did something happen?”

No one had asked me directly yet. Not even Dex, who usually had a radar for these things.

I could’ve told the truth.

He choked me.

He threatened me.

He told me I had thirty days to dig up a ghost or he’d bury me.

But what would that change?

So instead, I said, “We had a disagreement. That’s all.”

Hilda pursed her lips, clearly not buying it. “Well, if you need anything ”

“I’m fine,” I cut in, softer than I intended. “Really.”

She didn’t push. Just nodded and walked out. But the way her eyes lingered on me said she’d be watching.

Nights in the appliance room were colder now.

I slept in layers, wrapped in an old coat, surrounded by scattered notes and half-written theories.

I hadn’t showered in the master suite in a week. I used the staff bathroom on the other side of the house. I ate whatever I could sneak from the kitchen late at night.

The house felt different now. Like I knew I didn’t belong anymore.

I kept thinking back to the night Damien had grabbed me. How he’d looked at me like I was the enemy. Like I was guilty.

And maybe, deep down, that was what hurt more than anything.

That he hadn’t even asked.

He just decided.