Chapter Four: Home, or Something Like It
Because I saved you once, Damian said, his voice rough, and I'll keep saving you. Whether you trust me or not.
Elara stared at him, frozen in place. Blood soaked through his shirt, spreading like ink across a page. His breathing was shallow, ragged. But his eyes, those eyes that had haunted her since she woke up, were steady, locked on hers like a lifeline.
She didn't move toward him.
Jaxon did.
Don't try to act like a hero, he snapped, kneeling beside Damian. You bled for her after lying to her? Forgive me if I'm not moved.
Would you rather she be dead? Damian hissed. Because that's the only other outcome.
Enough! Elara's voice cracked through the room like a whip. Her hands trembled, her mind spiraling.
They were both right. And both wrong. She didn't know who to trust. But right now, one of them was bleeding on the floor because he threw himself between her and a blade.
She grabbed a towel from the kitchenette and dropped to her knees beside Damian. Let me help.
He blinked at her in surprise.
You're not off the hook, she said quickly. But if you die before I get the truth out of you, I'll never forgive you.
That earned her the faintest smirk.
She pressed the towel against his wound. He winced but didn't pull away.
Who was that? she asked, voice quieter now. The man in the mask?
An assassin, Damian answered through gritted teeth. Harrison's insurance policy. He doesn't just cover his tracks, he burns them.
Jaxon paced nearby, still rattled. We're exposed. They know you're alive now, Elara. You need to go dark.
Damian coughed. We have a better option.
Elara narrowed her eyes. Oh? What's that?
Come with me.
Jaxon stepped in. Absolutely not.
Damian's voice was weak but unwavering. You think they won't find this place next? She needs protection. And answers. And there's only one place we can find both.
Where? Elara asked.
Damian met her gaze. Home.
Her stomach clenched. What home?
Your father's real safe house. Off grid. Built for this exact scenario. And you've been there before, before they took your memories.
Elara looked between the two men. Jaxon, wide-eyed, shaking his head. Damian, bleeding and relentless.
She stood slowly.
I'll go," she said. But I'm not going because I trust you. I'm going because I'm tired of being lost.
The drive was long and silent.
Jaxon didn't follow. He made her promise to call him from a secure line when she was ready. He gave her a burner phone and a look that said I'll come the second you need me.
But Elara left with Damian.
Because some part of her, some instinct she couldn't explain, wanted to know why her heart jumped every time he looked at her.
The SUV cut through the darkened woods just outside the city. Miles passed. Then trees gave way to open land. To stone walls. And finally, to a house.
A sprawling, three story manor nestled in a valley. Ivy-covered. Remote. The kind of place fairytales began, or nightmares ended.
He pulled through the gate and parked beside the overgrown hedges.
You lived here? she asked as they stepped out.
Damian gave her a look. No. You did.
She paused at the front door as he unlocked it. The hinges groaned open.
The moment she stepped inside, something deep in her chest tightened. The scent of sandalwood. The worn grooves in the wooden floors. The painting on the stairway wall of a forest she couldn't name, but recognized.
I've been here before, she whispered.
Damian nodded. You used to hide in that closet when you were upset.
She turned sharply. Don't tell me about me.
He held her gaze. Then remember for yourself.
The air between them thickened. Heavy. Unspoken things swirled like smoke.
"I'll show you the secure room, he said after a beat, turning down the hall.
She followed.
Behind a panel in the library, hidden by a shelf of books, was a reinforced door. He scanned his fingerprint and stepped inside.
The room looked like a vault crossed with an archive. Metal shelves stacked with labeled boxes. A wall lined with monitors and surveillance files. And a desk, old oak, carved with a Sinclair family crest.
This is where your father worked in secret, Damian said. He didn't trust the board. He knew they were siphoning funds. Hiding things. So he started gathering proof.
He opened a drawer and pulled out a folder.
Inside, documents, photos, coded correspondences.
Elara flipped through them with shaking hands.
One letter stood out. Handwritten. The paper brittle with age.
If you're reading this, Elara, it means I didn't make it. Trust no one. Not even the family. Especially not Harrison. You are the only one who can finish what I started. Look for Project LUCID. You know where it begins. You always have.
She sat down slowly, her mind spinning.
Project LUCID again, she murmured. What is it?
Damian hesitated.
It was supposed to be a memory restoration program. Designed to undo trauma. But Harrison twisted it. Used it to erase instead of restore. He funded illegal trials. You were the only subject that survived.
Elara's blood ran cold. They tested it on me?
Yes, Damian said. Because your father had given you access to everything. You were the fallback. If he died, you were the one who could bring it all to light. So they had to silence you, but not kill you. You were too valuable.
She stood, walking to the window.
Everything hurt. Her head. Her heart. Her sense of self.
Why did you go along with it? she asked, not turning around. Why pretend to be my husband?
Because I was trying to protect you, he said. I made mistakes. I should've told you everything sooner. But I couldn't lose you again.
She turned. Don't say that like we were ever something real.
His voice cracked. We were. You just don't remember.
She stared at him, chest rising and falling.
Then, softly: Then help me remember. But don't lie again.
I won't, he said.
She didn't respond.
But she didn't leave the room either.