ELARA...
The morning sunlight filtered through Elara's blinds, soft and unassuming—too peaceful for the storm inside her. The email from Damon Voss still sat in her inbox, the words carved into her thoughts like warning signs.
> Curiosity can be a dangerous thing.
She had replied instinctively, not rationally.
> Then let's see how dangerous.
Now, in daylight, the defiance tasted different—bitter, thrilling, terrifying.
Jamie was sprawled on the couch when she emerged from her room, flipping channels and eating cereal straight from the box.
"Morning," he said around a mouthful. "You look like you've been plotting world domination."
"Just deadlines."
"Right. And I'm dating queen Elizabeth."
She poured coffee, trying not to smile. "Don't you have people to meet?"
"I'm on holiday," he said proudly. "My finals are next month. I deserve rest, judgment-free."
Elara rolled her eyes, taking a seat opposite him. "You call this rest?"
He gestured at the TV, where a news anchor's voice droned on about Voss Industries' expansion into Europe. "I call this research. You know—studying the company my sister might accidentally take down someday."
Her spoon froze midway to her mouth.
He grinned. "Kidding. Mostly."
"You're not funny."
"I'm hilarious," Jamie said. Then, quieter: "Elara… you're not actually getting yourself into trouble with that guy, are you?"
She looked at him over the rim of her mug. "No. I'm just doing my job."
He studied her for a beat, then nodded slowly. "Okay. Just—be careful. People like him don't play fair."
"I don't, either," she said softly.
By the time she arrived at Voss Publishing, the building was alive with quiet tension. Every department was pretending to function normally, but something in the air had shifted.
Her heels echoed on the marble, every step drawing subtle glances. The gala scandal hadn't died—it had just learned to whisper.
At her desk, Stella was already mid-rant.
"Okay, so," Stella said, waving her tablet like a sword. "He was here again. The Alex Walter. I swear, he's haunting this building."
Elara arched a brow. "Let me guess. You're planning an exorcism?"
"Funny. No. I'm planning a restraining order—after I get his autograph."
Elara bit back a laugh. "You realize he's your boss's best friend."
Stella's grin widened. "Exactly. Which means he's in our orbit now. I was dropping off reports to design when he passed by. He said 'good morning,' and I almost resigned on the spot."
"Try to keep your job," Elara murmured, scrolling through files. "You'll need it when this place implodes."
"What do you mean implodes?"
"Nothing," Elara said too quickly. "Forget it."
She tried to lose herself in work, but it was useless. Every few hours, she caught movement through the glass wall—Damon walking the corridors, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He wasn't supposed to be on this floor. CEOs didn't wander editorial departments. Yet, there he was—quiet, deliberate, unreadable.
By noon, Luke sent her a message:
> Mr. Voss requests a progress summary from the editorial division by 1:00 p.m.
Her stomach dipped. That was… specific.
She assembled the file, checked it twice, and went up to Luke's office. The hallway outside Damon's suite smelled faintly of cedar and ink—his scent.
She knocked once.
"Come in."
He was there, standing by the window, tie loosened, phone in hand. When he looked up, the world seemed to pause a second too long.
"Miss Quin."
"Mr. Voss." She placed the file on the table. "Editorial report, as requested." He crossed the room, and she felt the weight of his gaze before he even spoke. "You work fast."
"You like control."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "Sometimes control isn't what it looks like."
"Then what is it?"
"Survival," he said quietly.
The silence that followed was charged—not loud, but heavy, as if words would have ruined the balance between them.
When she finally turned to leave, his voice stopped her.
"Miss Quin."
She froze. "Yes?"
"You're a curious woman. Try not to forget what happened to the cat."
Her pulse stuttered. "Then maybe the cat should've learned how to bite back."
He said nothing, but the faintest smile touched his mouth
Elara walked out, heart hammering, knowing she'd just stepped into a game with no clear rules. The door closed behind her, but Damon didn't move.
For a moment, the silence in his office felt almost tangible. Her words hung in the air—quiet, defiant, dangerous.
Then maybe the cat should've learned how to bite back.
He exhaled slowly, running a hand across his jaw. No one spoke to him that way. Not executives, not rivals, not even Alex when he was drunk enough to try.
Elara Quin wasn't fearless. She was reckless in a way that looked like composure.
And it was starting to get under his skin.
Luke appeared in the doorway, tablet in hand. "Sir, the Singapore branch is waiting on confirmation for the merger schedule. Also, Jenna called again."
Damon's gaze flicked to the skyline before he said, "Tell Singapore I'll call tonight. And I'll handle Jenna."
Luke hesitated, sensing the shift in tone, then nodded and left.
The moment he was gone, Damon pressed a button on his desk. His phone lit up instantly.
"Damon." Jenna's voice was sharp, familiar. "So it's true, then? You've gone completely silent on me."
"I've been working," he said.
"I heard. On her."
He didn't answer.
Jenna laughed, brittle. "You really think she's different, don't you? You think you can bury your father's mess by chasing a woman who doesn't even know what she's walking into?"
"Enough, Jenna."
"No, you listen," she said, voice breaking. "You're playing with fire, Damon. And you're starting to sound just like Nathaniel."
The line went dead.
Damon stood motionless for a moment, phone still in hand. Then he set it down and walked to the window. Below, the city was bathed in late-afternoon light—so deceptively calm.
He remembered being a boy, watching Nathaniel Voss tear down everything he touched in the name of power. He had sworn he'd never repeat that mistake.
And yet… here he was, watching Elara Quin the way his father had once watched a boardroom—like possession and understanding were the same thing.
The hum of the office softened as evening fell. Most of the staff had gone home. Damon loosened his cuffs, turning off his monitor—then froze.
A new alert blinked across the corner of the screen.
User: E. Quin — Accessing Level 2 Archives.
For a long moment, he simply stared at it. Then, slowly, a small, controlled smile formed.
"Persistent," he murmured.
He didn't revoke her access.
He wanted to see how far she'd go.
Down on the eleventh floor, Elara sat before her glowing screen. Her pulse thundered in her ears. The archive page opened like a vault, each folder a doorway she shouldn't be crossing.
Project Serpent – Archived Data.
2010: Voss Technologies, Chicago Branch.
Her cursor hovered. She could feel her heart knocking against her ribs. Every part of her screamed to stop, to close it before she crossed a line she couldn't return from.
She didn't stop.
A click, a pause, and lines of redacted text filled the screen.
Then—at the bottom corner—a name half-faded by digital corruption: Nathaniel Voss.
Her throat tightened. There it was. Proof of something again, though she didn't know what yet. The date matched the month her parents died.
She stared at the screen until her reflection stared back—her face pale, determined.
Then a shadow moved behind her.
"Still working?"
His voice was quiet, low, unmistakable.
Elara turned slowly. Damon leaned against the doorframe, jacket gone, shirt sleeves rolled, tie loose—the picture of composed chaos.
"Still watching?" she countered.
"Always."
Their eyes locked across the dim office. Neither spoke for a long moment. The hum of the fluorescent lights filled the silence, a rhythm as steady as her racing heart.
"You shouldn't be here," she said.
"Funny, cause I remembered this being my company but then again the question is should you?"
Her breath caught. "You gave me access."
"I wanted to see if you'd use it."
"Why?"
"Because curiosity," he said, taking a step closer, "reveals more about a person than truth ever will."
Elara's pulse thundered in her ears. "And what have you learned about me, Mr. Voss?"
"That you don't scare easily," he said softly. "And that makes you dangerous."
He stopped just short of her desk, gaze flicking from the glowing screen to her face. "Go home, Elara. Before you find something you can't unsee."
"I already have," she whispered.
The air between them crackled—sharp, fragile, alive. For a second, it felt like the city itself held its breath.
Then he turned, the sound of his footsteps echoing against the marble.
At the doorway, he paused. "Be careful which ghosts you dig up, Miss Quin. Some of them dig back."
The door shut quietly behind him.
Elara stared after him, heart pounding, her reflection flickering in the dark screen like two versions of the same woman—one afraid, one no longer capable of it.
Every empire has its cracks. Sometimes, they look like a woman who stopped being afraid.