Chapter Twenty-Two - Emery
I replay the confrontation with Igor over and over, the memory looping behind my eyes like a film I can’t turn off.
I remember the way I cornered him at the dinner—how I waited until dessert, until Damien was distracted by a phone call, before sliding into the empty seat beside Igor at the far end of the table.
I remember the white-knuckle grip on my fork, the measured steadiness of my voice as I asked about the Cyprus transfers, the Baltic shell companies, the numbers that made no sense.
He barely blinked. His expression stayed exactly the same: placid, mild, almost paternal. He answered softly, just above the clink of glasses and the murmur of distant laughter.
“You’re very clever, Emery. You know, sometimes cleverness is dangerous.
” His tone was calm and chilling all at once, and I felt the chill all the way to my bones.
“You know what happens to people who point fingers in this family?” he said, as if he were offering advice, not a threat.
“They lose things. Sometimes everything. Your family, your freedom. Your life. You don’t want that. Not for yourself, and not for Damien.”
I held his gaze, searching for a crack in his composure, but there was nothing. Just an unspoken message: I see you, I know what you’ve found, and I will not hesitate to make you disappear if you become a problem.
Then he leaned in closer, the faint scent of his cologne threading between us. “You’re not a problem yet, are you? You’re smart enough to know there’s another way. You could help me. Influence from within. Undermine Damien not for revenge, but for balance. For power. For your own survival.”
He smiled, gentle and cold. “Think about it. You could have so much more than fear. You could have control.”
All day, his words follow me. I try to focus on the present, on the thousand tiny tasks that make up my routine: making coffee, answering emails, flipping through reports.
Every action feels double-edged, layered with implication. Is someone watching? Is someone counting how many times I open my phone, how many times I hesitate over a message? I can’t even pour a cup of tea without hearing Igor’s voice in my head.
Power. Escape. Leverage. Revenge. He made it sound so rational, so safe, as if betrayal could ever be as simple as moving pieces on a board. I hate myself for understanding why it’s tempting.
He offered me a way out—a way to stop being a liability, a pawn in Damien’s world. A way to matter on my own terms, to be something other than an asset or a threat. The logic of it burns in my mind: if I cooperate, maybe I survive. Maybe my family stays safe. Maybe I even win.
But logic isn’t the whole of it. There’s something messier tangled up inside me—a sharp, aching imbalance I can’t reason away. I tell myself it’s just fear, the sick terror of knowing how close I am to ruin.
It’s more than that. It’s the ache in my chest when I think about Damien, about the way his voice softens when he says my name, about the roughness in his touch when he’s lost control.
It’s the memory of being seen, really seen, in those quiet, late-night moments when the world shrinks to just the two of us and everything else falls away.
The idea of undermining him—of turning that trust into a weapon—makes me nauseous.
Even when I try to imagine it as self-defense, as survival, I can’t shake the sense of betrayal.
I can’t shake the truth that I want to matter to him, to belong here, not because I’m clever or useful, but because I choose to.
I make coffee. My hands shake so badly I spill grounds across the counter, and I have to start over.
I delete the message I was about to send my mother.
I stare at the blinking cursor in a half-written report, my mind jumping from Igor’s offer to the way Damien looked at me that morning—possessive, yes, but also worried, as if he sensed the tremor under my skin.
If I do nothing, I risk becoming a liability again—a sitting duck, too valuable to kill, too dangerous to trust.
Except f I act impulsively, I could trigger something catastrophic. Igor is a snake, but he isn’t wrong about the world we’re in. Power shifts in shadows. Leverage is currency. One word to the wrong person and everything I care about disappears.
I stare at my reflection in the glass of the office door—shoulders tense, jaw clenched, eyes bruised with lack of sleep. I don’t look like a survivor. I look like someone teetering at the edge of a decision that will break her either way.
I want to run. I want to fight. I want to curl up in Damien’s arms and let him make this choice for me, but I know he can’t.
He’s already drowning in threats I can’t name.
Lunch comes and goes. I force myself to eat, but the taste turns to dust in my mouth. Every time a staff member knocks, I startle, expecting Igor’s cold smile or Damien’s unreadable stare. The office, which once felt like a sanctuary, now feels like a cell.
By late afternoon, the sun moves across the city, painting long shadows through the windows. I sit on the couch, hugging my knees, the memory of Igor’s voice circling, tightening.
I’m not safe. Not here, not anywhere. I’m not untouchable. The more I think about what I could lose, the harder it is to know what I should do.
If survival means choosing sides, I’m not sure which one is left to me. I hate Igor for putting me here. I hate myself for not knowing how to escape.
Most of all, I hate that the most dangerous part of all isn’t the threat—it’s the pull I feel toward Damien, the longing that refuses to let go, even as the ground shifts under my feet.
Evening presses in quietly, the sky outside Damien’s penthouse deepening from gold to slate.
The city comes alive below, windows blinking on, horns echoing up in the distance, but inside everything feels suspended.
I try to focus on reports, on emails, on the numbers that once grounded me.
Instead, my attention keeps drifting—again and again—to the front door.
Damien always arrives home at the same time, footsteps heavy and sure, his presence shifting the whole atmosphere.
Tonight, he’s late. At first, I try to ignore it, telling myself that his absence is a minor inconvenience, just another variable to manage.
As the minutes stretch, a quiet anxiety begins to creep in, steady as a rising tide. I check the clock every few minutes.
I flip through my phone, tapping out messages I never send. I move from room to room, pretending to straighten pillows, pretending that the faint knot in my stomach has nothing to do with him.
It’s logistics, I tell myself. Security. Politics. The way everything here depends on timing and routine.
The excuse rings hollow. I’m not worried about a meeting missed or a shift change unannounced. I’m worried about him. About the possibility, however unlikely, that something could reach him in the world outside—something I can’t see, can’t predict, can’t control.
The realization is unsettling. I press my hand to my chest, feeling my pulse quicken with every passing moment, with every memory of Igor’s warnings circling my mind. I remind myself that I should be focused on escape, on planning my next move, on watching for the cracks in this gilded cage.
What I’m really watching for, what I keep waiting for, is the sound of Damien’s key in the door.
The door finally opens, late but not frantic. Damien steps inside, suit jacket slung over his shoulder, hair slightly mussed, a faint trace of amusement in his eyes as he catches sight of me in the entryway.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding, my shoulders sagging with the sudden release of tension. I must look startled—relieved, even—and he notices immediately.
He drops his keys on the table and grins, not the cold, calculated smile he shows his men, but something softer.
“You were worried about me?” he teases, voice low, a thread of warmth woven through his words.
I want to deny it, to laugh it off, to act as though I’m above such weakness. But I can’t. I can feel the flush climbing my cheeks, the way my hands tighten around the edge of the counter. I nod, barely, too honest to pretend.
“Yes,” I say quietly, my voice almost swallowed by the hush of the apartment.
He moves closer, close enough that I have to tip my chin up to meet his gaze. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—pleasure, surprise, maybe even pride. He reaches out, fingers brushing my cheek. “Didn’t realize you’d started keeping track of me.”
His words leave me exposed in a way no threat ever has.
“It’s just…” I start, then let the words trail off. It’s not just logistics. It’s not just routine. It’s him. I want him safe, here, real, where I can see him.
He leans in, lips brushing my forehead in a gesture so tender it startles me. “You’re not the only one who worries, you know.”
He squeezes my shoulder gently, then steps away, already loosening his tie, already shifting back into the Damien who runs this world. “I’m going to shower,” he says, disappearing into the bedroom with the easy confidence of someone who knows the space—and everyone in it—belongs to him.
I’m left alone, suddenly unmoored. The rooms feel too large, too full of echoes. I wander into the bedroom, perching on the edge of the bed for a moment before rising, restless, drawn to the floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the city.
I press my forehead to the cool glass, watching the night unfold below—the pulse of traffic, the steady, anonymous movements of a city that has never cared who wins or loses behind penthouse walls.
My mind spins: Igor’s offer, Damien’s hands on my shoulders, the sick tangle of logic and emotion that keeps tightening around my heart. I remember Igor’s voice—his calm, his certainty—as he promised safety in exchange for cooperation.
I remember Damien’s voice, so different, so much rougher, full of threats and promises and something else I’m terrified to name.
If escape were possible—if I could step out the door, blend into the city, disappear—would I even take it? I tell myself yes. I tell myself I am still fighting, still resisting, still looking for a way out.
As I stand there, alone in the dim light, watching the city blink and swirl, I know it isn’t that simple.
I want to stay. I want to belong. I want to believe there is safety in his presence, that the comfort I find in Damien’s arms is something more than just survival. That longing, that need, betrays everything I’ve tried to hold on to—every line I promised myself I wouldn’t cross.
The city keeps moving. Damien’s shower runs in the distance, a steady rush of water that does nothing to drown out the chaos in my chest. I close my eyes, resting my palms on the cold glass, letting myself feel every twist of fear and desire, every shiver of hope and regret.
When Damien steps out, he’ll find me standing here—still caught, still torn, still desperately trying to choose between freedom and the only person who’s ever made captivity feel like home.
And as the night deepens, I finally admit what frightens me most: my heart is beginning to betray me, and this betrayal—quiet, undeniable, impossibly dangerous—may be the one thing I can’t survive.
I hear the shower cut off, the sudden silence loud in my ears.
My pulse jumps, and I straighten without thinking, smoothing my hands over my sleeves like I’m preparing for something I can’t name.
A few minutes later, he emerges, hair damp, shirt unbuttoned, eyes immediately finding me by the window.
“You’ve been standing there awhile,” he says quietly.
“I needed air,” I answer, though there’s no wind and no open window between us and the city.
He comes closer, stopping just behind me, close enough that I can feel his warmth. “You don’t have to carry everything alone,” he murmurs.
I laugh softly, bitter. “In your world? Everyone carries things alone.”
He doesn’t argue. Instead, his hand settles on my waist, firm and gentle. I close my eyes, torn between leaning into him and pulling away, knowing that every moment like this makes leaving feel less like escape and more like loss.