I decided to test him over breakfast.
It was a Saturday morning, and Damien was at the kitchen island with his tablet and espresso, dressed in dark jeans and a black shirt. He looked relaxed, but I had learned that Damien was never truly relaxed. He was always calculating, always three steps ahead.
I poured myself coffee and sat across from him, keeping my movements casual. We had done this dozens of times, shared breakfast in comfortable silence before going about our separate days.
"I was thinking about my mother this morning," I said, stirring cream into my coffee. "It's almost the anniversary of her death."
Damien's fingers stilled on the tablet screen for just a fraction of a second before continuing their swipe. "I see."
"It's strange how time passes. Sometimes it feels like yesterday, sometimes like a lifetime ago." I took a sip, watching him over the rim of my cup. "The accident was so sudden. No warning at all."
"Accidents tend to be that way." His tone was flat, disinterested. He didn't look up from the screen.
"I suppose." I set down my cup. "I never really talked to you about her, have I? About Isabella?"
This time, the pause was longer. Damien's jaw tightened slightly before he tapped something on his tablet. "There's not much to discuss. It was a tragedy. These things happen."
"Do you remember meeting her? At those charity events you mentioned once?"
His eyes lifted to mine, "Why are you asking me this, Elena?"
"Just curious. You knew my father through business. I assumed you must have met her at some point."
"I met a lot of people through business with your father." He set down the tablet with a deliberate click. "Is there a point to this conversation?"
The dismissal in his voice was clear, but I pressed on. "I found some of her things at the estate. Old calendars, papers. It made me realize how little I knew about her life in those final months."
"Then perhaps you should leave it that way." Damien stood, taking his cup to the sink. "The dead deserve their privacy."
"Even when their deaths don't make sense?"
"What exactly are you implying?"
"Nothing. Just going through her papers raised some questions."
"Questions you should stop asking." He moved past me toward his study, the conversation clearly over in his mind.
But I wasn't done. "Where were you going? We're not finished talking."
Damien stopped, his back to me, and I could see the tension in his shoulders. When he turned around, his expression was arctic. "Yes, we are. And I suggest you remember your place, Elena."
The words hit like a slap. "My place?"
"You're here under contract. To attend events, play a role, fulfill certain obligations." He moved closer, his presence suddenly overwhelming. "Nowhere in that contract does it say you get to interrogate me about your family's past."
"I'm not interrogating you. I'm asking a simple question."
"And I'm telling you to drop it."
My heart was racing, but I held my ground. "You've been acting strange ever since I mentioned her name. Every time I bring up my mother, you shut down. Why is that?"
"I don't owe you explanations about my behavior."
"Did you know my mother?" The question came out more forcefully than I intended. "Not just meeting her at events. Did you know her?
"That's none of your business," he said coldly.
"She was my mother. That makes it my business."
"No." "Your business is showing up when and where I tell you, looking appropriate, saying appropriate things, and keeping your personal drama out of our arrangement. That is what you are here for."
The reminder of the transactional nature of our relationship, stung more than it should have. "So I'm just supposed to ignore the fact that you clearly know something about her? That you can barely look at me when I mention her name?"
"Yes." "That's exactly what you're supposed to do."
"I can't do that."
"Then you're in breach of contract." His eyes were hard, merciless. "And I don't tolerate breach of contract, Elena. You know that."
"You knew her," I said quietly, watching his face. "You knew my mother, and something happened. Something you don't want me to find out about."
"This conversation is over." He turned toward his study again.
"Your mother made choices that had consequences!" I called after him, not even sure where the words came from. "Isn't that what you would say? That's what people always say when they don't want to admit the truth."
Damien froze. Slowly, he turned back to face me.
"Yes," he said softly, dangerously. "Your mother made choices that had consequences. Just like your father. Choices that destroyed lives, ruined families, cost people everything they had." He moved back toward me, and this time I did step back. "So if you're smart, you'll learn from their mistakes. You'll stop digging into the past and accept that some doors are locked for a reason."
"What choices?" I whispered. "What did she do?"
"Stop asking questions." His voice was low and threatening. "I won't tell you again, Elena. Whatever you think you're going to find, whatever truth you think you're chasing, let it go."
"I can't."
"You will."
"This is my mother we're talking about."
"I don't care." "Your mother is dead. She's been dead for eight years. And whatever secrets she took to the grave are going to stay there. Do you understand me?"
I stared at the man I had been living with for months, and realized I didn't know him at all. The occasional glimpses of something softer, something almost human, they were all illusions. This was who Damien really was. Cold, Controlling and Ruthless.
"What if she's not dead?" The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Damien went completely still. "What did you just say?"
"Nothing. I just meant"
"What did you find, Elena?" "What have you been doing behind my back?"
"Nothing. I was just"
"Don't lie to me." "I've noticed you slipping out at odd hours. The secretive phone calls. The way you've been watching me. You've been investigating, haven't you?"
"Answer the question."
"Yes," I spat out. "Yes, I've been looking into her death. Because something about it doesn't add up, and you clearly know what it is."
"You stupid, reckless girl."
The contempt in his voice cut deeper than any insult. "Don't talk to me like that."
"I'll talk to you however and whenever I want. You're in my home, living off my money, bound by a contract that gives me considerable control over your life." He ran a hand through his hair, and I saw fury. "Do you have any idea what you've done? What danger you've put yourself in?"
"Then tell me! If it's so dangerous, if I'm in so much trouble, then tell me what I'm up against!"
"No." The word was final, absolute. "You're going to stop this investigation immediately. You're going to destroy whatever evidence you've collected. And you're going to forget every question you've ever asked about your mother's death."
"I can't do that."
"You will." He moved to his study door, then paused. "We have the Sinclair Foundation gala tomorrow night. I expect you dressed and ready by seven.
I wanted to argue, to fight back, to tell him he couldn't control me like this. But the cold reality of my situation settled over me. He could do exactly what he threatened. I had no money of my own, no place to go, no leverage whatsoever.
I was trapped. And he knew it.
I stood in the kitchen for a long time, my hands shaking, my mind racing.
Damien knew. He knew about my mother. And he was willing to threaten me, intimidate me, use every ounce of power he had over me to keep that truth buried.
Your mother made choices that had consequences. Just like your father.
What choices? What consequences?
I thought about his warning. Some truths will destroy you, Elena. Maybe he was right. Maybe I should just drop this investigation, play my part, keep my comfortable prison and never ask another question.
But then I thought about my mother's letter. About eight years of not knowing, of living with grief, questions and suspicions.
I couldn't stop now. Even if it cost me everything.
Even if it cost me this contract, this life, this gilded cage I had been living in.
I pulled out my burner phone and texted Sarah: Need to meet. ASAP. Things are escalating.
Her response came quickly: Tomorrow morning. 10 AM. Be careful.
I looked toward Damien's study, toward the locked door that might as well have been a wall between us.
He thought he could control me with threats, money and the power dynamic of our contract.
But he was wrong.
I was my mother's daughter. And if she had been willing to give up everything for the truth, her life, her identity, her daughter, then I could risk a contract and a comfortable apartment.
Tomorrow I would play my part at the gala.
But after that? Damien was going to learn that some women couldn't be silenced.
I went to my room and closed the door, and start planning my next move.