Damien Vale
---
She hadn't screamed.
Damien leaned back in the leather chair in his dimly lit study, the glow of the monitors casting pale shadows across his face. The camera feed was still live—her apartment, her living room, her silence. She had found the photo, and yet she hadn't called the police. Hadn't run. Hadn't even left.
That fascinated him.
Elena was not like the others. She didn't break easily. No, she unraveled slowly—like silk burning at the edges, folding into herself with grace even in fear.
He ran his fingers along the edge of the silver lighter on his desk, the one she'd touched once when she thought he wasn't watching. She had left fingerprints—evidence of presence. Proof that she was real, and not just an idea he'd built in his mind.
He hated being away from her.
But he needed this distance. It made her skin crawl, made her second-guess her instincts. Made her rely on the idea of him, not just his physical form.
Damien stood, shrugging on a dark coat, smooth wool tailored sharp enough to slice. He moved like a shadow trained in civility, power disguised as elegance.
He walked to the wall of screens and paused before switching one feed off—the camera pointed at her bedroom. He wouldn't watch her sleep tonight.
He didn't need to.
She would feel him anyway.
And that was the point.
Obsession wasn't about proximity. It was about presence. Psychological gravity.
And Elena Rivers was now orbiting him, even in her resistance. Especially in her resistance.
He smiled, just slightly, as he stepped into the night.
It was time she remembered why silence, when it came to him, was never empty.
---