Chapter Eight
The silence in the car was deafening.
Celine sat stiffly in the passenger seat of Damian's sleek black Maserati, the city lights casting fleeting shadows across her face. Her grip on the flash drive was tight, as though letting go of it might unravel everything she'd just learned — or worse, everything she hadn't.
Damian glanced at her from the driver's side, his jaw locked, knuckles white on the steering wheel. He hadn't said a word since they left the club. But then again, neither had she.
"How long?" Her voice finally broke the silence — raw, brittle.
He didn't pretend to know what she meant. "Since I suspected? Two years. Since I knew for sure? Eight months."
Eight months.
She'd been living under his roof for nearly five of those. Laughing. Arguing and wondering why her pulse quickened whenever he looked at her like he was fighting something primal.
All while he carried the weight of her mother's murder like a secret promise.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Damian pulled into the underground garage of his private estate. The iron gates closed behind them like the sealing of a vault.
"I was waiting until I could prove who ordered the hit," he said, turning the engine off. "And until I could be sure you were safe."
"Safe?" She scoffed, swinging the door open. "You had my life on a leash, Damian. You made me sign that contract. You followed me, watched me—"
"Because the moment you stepped out of your father's house," he cut in, voice taut with controlled fury, "you became a target. Your father knew something he shouldn't. So did your mother. And when she tried to run with it, someone made sure she never spoke again."
Celine stood frozen by the car, shadows swallowing her frame. "And you think I'm next?"
"I know you are."
He stepped closer, no longer the charming, stoic billionaire she once saw in passing at her father's dinner parties. He looked dangerous now — storm-eyed, ruthless. But beneath the sharp edges, there was something softer. Something broken.
"I didn't tell you everything because I wanted you to trust me on your own. Not because you were forced to."
"You tricked me."
"No," he said, jaw clenched. "I protected you."
She looked away, throat burning. "What was my mother running from?"
Damian paused. "Your mother had evidence — encrypted files. Your father didn't know how much. But she'd discovered that someone in their inner circle was laundering money for cartels through offshore shell corporations… and that the trail led back to an organization much darker than we expected."
Celine's stomach dropped. "Who?"
"We don't know yet. But she left breadcrumbs, hidden in places only she would think to look."
Celine blinked. "Like what?"
He looked at her, gaze piercing. "You."
A cold breath left her lungs.
"She left a series of hidden messages," Damian said. "Encrypted photos, voice memos, old handwritten notes buried in journals. Your name appears in almost every clue. You weren't just her daughter. You were the insurance. The failsafe."
She shook her head slowly. "This is insane."
"It's real," he said. "And if we don't move fast, they'll bury the truth before you can dig it up."
Celine swallowed the fear rising in her throat. "Then let's dig."
Damian blinked. "What?"
She straightened her shoulders. "You said I was the key, right? Then unlock me. Show me where she started. Whatever she left — I'll find it."
A flicker of admiration passed through his eyes.
"Alright," he said, after a beat. "But it means going back."
"Back where?"
"To your father's house."
Celine's heart stuttered.
The Moreau estate wasn't just a place of cold stone and bloodlines — it was a prison of memory. The last place she saw her mother alive. The place where she first felt her father's love fade into power plays and silent judgment.
"Are you sure it's safe?"
"No." Damian's tone was dark. "But I'll be with you every second."
She looked up at him, hesitating — until she caught a glimmer of something behind his guarded expression. Fear. Not for himself. For her.
"What happens if we find what she left?"
Damian took a step closer, lowering his voice.
"Then the real war begins."
And in that moment, Celine understood something with chilling clarity:
This wasn't just a story of forbidden love, contracts, or even vengeance.
It was a story of blood.
Of betrayal.
And of secrets powerful enough to kill for.
The silence in the car was no longer just silence — it was a battlefield.
Celine's mind raced with every twist in the conversation, each word unraveling what she thought she knew about her life, her mother, and even herself. The weight of the flash drive in her hand felt heavier now, as though it were pulsing with the secrets her mother had died protecting.
When Damian turned off the ignition, the subtle hum of the car faded into the raw stillness of his private underground garage. Cool, clinical lighting bounced off the polished concrete, casting reflections onto the sleek curves of luxury cars lined up like silent sentries.
"You said she used me?" Celine's voice cracked, barely above a whisper.
"She trusted you," Damian corrected, stepping out of the car with quiet restraint. "Your mother was careful. She didn't write anything down that could be traced. She encoded it all — and placed the final key where no one would look."
"Inside her daughter."
He looked at her, his tall frame bathed in silver light. Damian Blackwood — once just a sharply dressed, steely-eyed guest at her father's parties — now stood revealed as the guardian of every truth her family buried. The man was older, yes — maybe in his early forties — but his age only made him more dangerous. With chiseled features, deep-set storm-gray eyes, and a voice like velvet steel, Damian looked like the kind of man who walked into boardrooms and walked out with kingdoms.
"I need to know everything," Celine said, standing her ground. "Start from the beginning."
Damian exhaled slowly and led her into the elevator. "She came to me first. A month before she died."
Celine blinked. "What?"
"She told me she found something. That she feared for your safety — and her own. She didn't say much, just that people were watching her. People close to your father. When I asked if she trusted him, she hesitated."
The elevator doors slid open to reveal a high-ceilinged study lined with dark walnut shelves, and glass panels overlooking the city skyline beyond. The space screamed old money and ruthless intellect.
Damian walked toward a locked cabinet, keyed in a code, and withdrew a black leather folder. He placed it gently on the table in front of her.
"What's this?" Celine asked.
"Her first message," he said quietly.
Celine opened it. Inside was a faded Polaroid photo — one she recognized. It was of her, age seven, on the balcony of their summer home in Tuscany. Her mother knelt beside her, arms wrapped around her like a fortress. The photo had always seemed innocent. Ordinary.
But now, under closer inspection, she noticed faint numbers written in the background. They were etched into the iron rail of the balcony. Not naturally part of the scene.
"Coordinates," Damian said. "I had the image scanned. She embedded GPS data into the photographs she left around your house. This one points to the Moreau summer estate in Italy."
Celine swallowed. "But that place was sold years ago."
"Not before someone went back and wiped the basement clean. I had a contact look into it three months ago. Your mother's files were moved before the sale."
"Where are they now?"
Damian looked at her. "That's what we have to find out. But there's a pattern to the places she left clues. They're all tied to memories with you."
Celine sat down slowly, her hands trembling slightly as she held the photo.
"I don't remember most of that trip," she admitted. "Just… warmth. Her scent. The way she braided my hair every morning like it was a ritual."
"That was her message," Damian said gently. "She was trying to remind you. She believed your memories would hold the key if anything ever happened to her."
Celine looked up, her eyes glassy. "You knew all this… and still played me like I was just some pawn?"
Damian's expression darkened. "You were never a pawn. I played the world to keep you alive. You just didn't see it yet."
For a moment, the space between them crackled with everything unsaid — with all the emotions neither had permission to feel.
Celine rose from the chair, closing the folder with a sharp snap. "Then let's stop wasting time."
Damian arched a brow. "You're sure?"
"I'm done being protected. I want to be part of this. I want to know who killed her. I want to see the look on their face when we bring their whole empire down."
His mouth tilted in a ghost of a smile. "You sound like her."
Celine turned to face him fully, chin high, resolve steel-hard. "Then tell me what's next."
Damian walked to a concealed panel behind a bookshelf and pressed his palm to a biometric scanner. A hidden compartment clicked open — revealing a drawer filled with encrypted drives, faded letters, and photographs marked with coded symbols.
"We start with what she left behind. But after that… we go to the place where the trail ends."
"Where?"
His gaze locked with hers.
"Your father's private office. He has a vault she never had access to. And I think whatever's inside… was worth killing for."
Celine's breath hitched.
And then came the noise.
A soft, deliberate click.
She froze. Damian's entire body tensed as he pulled her behind him.
The sound came from the hallway outside the study.
Someone was in the penthouse.
And they weren't supposed to be there.
Damian pulled a gun from the drawer and motioned silently. Celine crouched low, her heart hammering against her ribs as footsteps echoed closer — slow, methodical, confident.
She'd always imagined the truth would come in the form of whispered stories or discovered files.
Not a stranger with a silencer entering the room where secrets had just come alive.
But there it was.
This wasn't just a mystery.
It was war.
And she had just chosen a side.