Seven Years Ago…
The office was silent, the hour deep into the night. Damien Cole stepped in, his shoes clicking softly against the polished floor. He only came to retrieve a file—simple, routine. But then he heard it.
Voices.
He paused, file in hand, ears straining. One voice rose above the rest—low, chilling, laced with menace.
"Where did you keep it?"
His brow furrowed. The voices weren't coming from an office or the hallway—they were behind the locked door of the workers' restroom.
No one should've been there.
No one else had access unless they had a worker's card.
"I... do... no... I don't know.. anything..."
He leaned in, muscles taut, heart beginning to pound. That voice—it was familiar.
Joseph.
Damien's eyes narrowed. Joseph worked under him. What the hell was going on?
Then it happened.
Pain burst through his skull like a gunshot. The world spun. Blood roared in his ears—and Joseph's body crumpled to the floor, lifeless.
A sharp tremor seized him. He staggered back, mouth opening to scream—but another blow landed hard.
Darkness swallowed him.
Damien jerked awake with a guttural scream.
Sweat drenched his face, soaking into his hair and clinging to his skin. His breath came in ragged gasps. The sheets lay twisted around him like vines, the room a wreck—pillows on the floor, the nightstand overturned.
He stared into the darkness, heart still thudding.
The past never stayed buried.
The bedside lamp lay shattered on the floor, its cord tangled like a snake. It hadn't fallen on its own—he had tossed it. The duvet lay crumpled beside it, along with several books he'd torn through during the night, each one a failed attempt to push Alina from his mind.
But no matter what he did, she wouldn't leave.
Her voice. Her daring eyes.
The memories clung like shadows. Frustrated, he'd growled, hurled another book across the room—and then came the nightmare. Again. The blood on his hands. The guilt that never left.
Seven years of it.
And it still hadn't stopped tormenting him.
Sleep offered no mercy. Peace was a lie. Yet Alina Graves wanted him to forget? To move on? Just like that?
He yanked the sheet off his legs and stormed to the window. With a sharp flick, he pulled the curtains aside. Sunlight poured in, warm and blinding, brushing across his bare skin like judgment. He squinted down at the quiet street, his jaw clenched, chest rising with each breath of morning air.
There was still one thing Walter Graves hadn't destroyed—'his real estate empire.'
A multi-million dollar legacy, hidden in plain sight. Registered under his mother's name. Untouched. He had been careful, discreet. And Walter hadn't caught on.
Damien turned from the window, his movements sharp. He crossed the room, pulled open his wardrobe, and slipped into a robe. Every step was deliberate, every motion controlled.
Then he headed for the kitchen and brewed himself a black coffee—strong, bitter, undiluted.
It was a simple thing, really.
But after prison, being able to make his own damn coffee felt like power.
He grabbed his phone and dialed Victor's number.
The call rang once.
"Damien," Victor answered, his voice light, as always.
"I need to know," Damien said, his tone cold and clipped. He took a slow sip of his coffee, savoring the bitterness as his eyes scanned the towering stacks of documents he'd compiled—every sheet a weapon to bring down everything Walter had built.
"Know…?" Victor sounded confused, but Damien didn't leave room for questions.
"I need to know who pulled the strings to get me out of prison."
His gaze darkened. Among the scattered papers, a photo caught his eye—Walter Graves. Damien's jaw tightened.
The man's expression was as empty as ever—cool, unreadable. His bald head glinted under the flash, the same look he'd had the first day Damien met him. But it was his eyes that always stood out. Cold. Calculated. There was warning in them. A secret.
And Damien hated him for it.
Fury surged. He crumpled the paper and flung it aside, letting it fall where it may. The mess didn't matter.
"Damien, you're out now," Victor said gently through the line. "There's no point chasing someone who clearly doesn't want to be found."
Silence stretched between them. Damien took a slow, deliberate swallow of his coffee, ignoring everything Victor had said. He let the silence hang like a blade.
When it dragged on too long, Victor cleared his throat. "Fine. I'll find a way."
"I'll wait… but not for long," Damien said, then ended the call without giving Victor a chance to reply.
After finishing his coffee and taking a quick shower, he stepped out, dressed sharp and alert. He made his way to the underground parking lot and slid behind the wheel of a black jeep.
For now, he moved in the shadows.
Word had spread—Damien Cole was out of prison.
And many of those who heard had once answered to Walters. Just because the man was dead didn't mean his reach had vanished. If Damien wasn't careful, they'd come for him.
The one who handled his release—whoever they were—could only have done it with a motive. And Damien needed to know what that motive was.
Curiosity burned in him.
For years, he'd tried every connection he had, pulled every string within reach. But something always blocked it. He'd known Walters had a hand in it. But even with Walters gone, it wasn't supposed to be this easy.
Someone powerful had stepped in.
And now, he had to find them.
At all costs.
The hospital didn't assault him with its usual sterile smell this time as he walked in.
He barely acknowledged the nurses on his way through. He noticed their curious glances, but he didn't return them. His focus was fixed—his mother.
Time was too short to take the important things for granted.
And this… this was something he wouldn't take for granted. Not again.
Damien walked into her ward without knocking. He pushed the door open and strode in, expecting to find his mother asleep, like always—unless he woke her himself.
But she wasn't alone.
She sat upright, propped against a pillow in a relaxed position, laughing softly with someone.
He stepped closer—and saw the last person he ever expected.
Alina.
She sat with her legs crossed, her chestnut hair spilling over one shoulder as she spoke casually with his mother, as if she belonged there.
Anger ignited in his eyes.
What was she now—a stalker?
But then she sensed him. Her head turned slowly, and when her gaze met his, she froze.
For a split second, he saw it—fear. Raw, unguarded fear flashing through her eyes.
Or had he mistaken?