POV: Damian Cross
The city never sleeps, but tonight, it feels like it's holding its breath.
From the top floor of the Cross Tower, the skyline stretches in every direction: glass, steel, and ambition. My kingdom. My curse.
I stand by the window, undone, whiskey in hand, staring at the reflection of a man I barely recognize. The light from the city flickers against the glass, cutting my face into fragments, like it knows what I did.
It's been three days since that night with Alexandra. Three days since a mistake I can't name but can't forget either.
A mistake that shouldn't have happened, a betrayal that feels like a confession.
She'd come to my office late, her voice sharp, trembling with something that wasn't anger. We'd argued: about the company, about the merger, about Lydia, and then, suddenly, the words weren't words anymore..
A moment that shouldn't have existed but somehow did.
Now, every time I close my eyes, I see both of them. Lydia's softness. Alexandra's fire.
Two worlds that can never meet, yet somehow already have.
I down the rest of the whiskey and press my fingers against my temple. I'm not the kind of man who makes reckless decisions. But lately, it feels like everything I've built is cracking under a pressure I can't name.
My phone buzzes. A message from Alexandra.
Alexandra : We need to talk.
I stare at the screen until the message blurs. I don't answer.
Because I can't. Not yet.
Behind me, the sound of the elevator doors sliding open breaks the silence. I turn, and freeze.
"Lydia?"
She's standing there, framed by the doorway. Her hair loose, her eyes tired, her expression unreadable. She's holding something in her hand—small, silver, gleaming under the penthouse light.
A cufflink.
My heart stops.
"I think this is yours," she says quietly, crossing the room. Her voice is calm, too calm. "I found it under the sofa."
It takes everything in me not to flinch.
She holds it out, and for a moment, I can't move. The tiny piece of metal feels heavier than the world.
"Thank you," I manage, my voice rough. I reach for it, but she doesn't let go right away.
Her eyes search mine: steady, searching, almost pleading. "It doesn't match the one you wore last week."
My pulse stutters.
She knows.
Not everything, but enough to sense the fracture. The air between us hums with unspoken words, sharp and brittle.
Finally, she lets the cufflink drop into my palm. The faint clink as it lands feels like a verdict.
"Damian," she says softly, "is there something you're not telling me?"
I want to tell her the truth. That the thing I fear most isn't losing her, it's that I already have. That every lie I've told was born from a desperate attempt to protect the very thing I've now put at risk.
But instead, I lie again.
"No," I say. "Nothing."
The silence that follows is unbearable.
She nods once, slowly, as if she expected that answer all along. Then she turns toward the elevator, her voice barely above a whisper.
"You used to be a terrible liar, Damian."
The doors slide shut behind her, leaving me alone with the echo of my own mistakes.
I sink into the nearest chair, the cufflink still cold in my hand, and for the first time in years, I don't know how to fix what's breaking.
The phone buzzes again, another message from Alexandra.
Alexandra : She knows.
My chest tightens. I stare at the words until the letters burn into my mind.
Outside, lightning flickers across the skyline, the same kind of flash that started it all.
And just like that, I realize what comes next.
Secrets never stay buried.
Not when love is the shovel.