Chapter 8: Unraveling the Unknown....

The door shut behind her with a quiet click, sealing off Damian's world of secrets.

Isabelle stood in the dimly lit hallway, her heart hammering in her chest.

She had seen enough to know one thing—Damian Cross was far more than just an assassin.

The security feeds, the classified files, the eerie efficiency of that room… He wasn't just a killer-for-hire. He was a man who had built an empire on power and information.

And somewhere within that empire, she was a target.

She clenched her fists.

Why?

What had she done? Who wanted her dead badly enough to seek out someone like him?

Her body tensed with the need for answers, but one thing was clear—Damian wasn't ready to give them.

Not yet.

And if she wanted the truth, she would have to force him to tell her.

Sleep was impossible.

Isabelle lay on the massive bed, her thoughts tangled in knots. The way Damian had looked at her tonight—like he was daring her to keep pushing—sent a strange thrill through her.

There was something between them. A tension that went beyond danger.

Something dark. Something intoxicating.

She shivered, frustrated with herself.

This isn't attraction. It's survival.

But even as she told herself that, she couldn't deny the way her body reacted when he was close.

With a sigh, she sat up. There was no use in pretending she would get any rest.

Her gaze flickered to the city skyline beyond the window. The world outside was still moving, unaware of the storm brewing in her life.

She exhaled.

Fine. If Damian won't give me answers, I'll find them myself.

Sunlight streamed through the curtains when Isabelle finally left the bedroom.

She found Damian in the kitchen, dressed in a crisp black shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he sipped a cup of coffee.

He barely glanced at her. "You look like hell."

"Gee, thanks," she muttered, running a hand through her hair.

A smirk played on his lips, but he didn't comment further. Instead, he set down his mug and leaned against the counter, arms crossed.

"You're not going to stop digging, are you?"

Isabelle met his gaze head-on. "No."

His smirk faded.

A long silence stretched between them before he exhaled.

"Fine." He pushed off the counter and walked past her. "Get dressed. We're going out."

She blinked. "What?"

"You want answers?" He didn't look back. "Then keep up."

Isabelle had expected a dark alley, a secret warehouse, maybe even a confrontation with some dangerous figure from Damian's past.

What she hadn't expected was a high-end restaurant.

She followed him through the entrance, eyes scanning the elegant décor, the polished floors, the discreet security guards positioned near the exits.

Damian walked with the confidence of a man who owned the world, his presence commanding attention without effort.

A hostess approached. "Mr. Cross. Your table is ready."

She led them to a secluded corner booth.

Isabelle slid into the seat, still on edge. "Why are we here?"

Damian leaned back, his expression unreadable. "Because you need to understand something."

Before she could ask what, a man approached their table.

He was tall, well-dressed, but there was something off about him. His smile was too smooth, his eyes too sharp.

"Mr. Cross," he greeted, sliding into the seat across from them uninvited. "It's been a while."

Damian's expression didn't change. "Not long enough."

The man chuckled, but his gaze flickered to Isabelle.

"And this must be the girl."

Her stomach tightened.

The girl. Not Isabelle. Not Miss Monroe. Just… 'the girl.'

Damian's fingers drummed lightly against the table, a silent warning.

"Watch your tone, Victor."

The man—Victor—smirked. "Relax. I'm just curious. After all, it's not every day that you spare a target."

Cold fear trickled down Isabelle's spine.

She didn't know what she had expected, but this wasn't it.

Damian didn't respond. His silence was heavy, dangerous.

Victor leaned forward. "Come on, Cross. Let me in on the secret. What makes her so special?"

Isabelle's pulse pounded. I should look away. Stay quiet.

But something in Victor's tone made her skin crawl.

So she met his gaze and, without thinking, said, "Why do you care?"

Victor's smirk faltered.

Damian's lips twitched, as if amused.

Victor chuckled. "Feisty." He turned back to Damian. "She's playing with fire, you know."

"She's under my protection," Damian said smoothly, lifting his glass. "Which means she's none of your concern."

The air between them turned sharp.

Victor studied him for a long moment, then sighed, as if bored. "Fine. Keep your secrets, Cross. But don't expect the rest of the world to be as patient."

With that, he stood and strolled away.

Isabelle exhaled, her grip on the table tightening.

Damian took a slow sip of his drink. "That," he said, "is what I needed you to see."

She frowned. "What are you talking about?"

He leaned forward, his voice quiet.

"You're not safe, Isabelle. And it's not just because someone wants you dead."

Her stomach twisted. "Then why?"

His gaze darkened.

"Because people like Victor? They don't need a reason to destroy you. They just need an opportunity."

Silence stretched between them.

Isabelle swallowed hard. "So what now?"

Damian's smirk returned, but it was laced with something colder.

"Now?" He leaned back, eyes gleaming. "Now, you learn how to survive."