Chapter 10: Shadows of the Past...

The sting of the training mat barely registered anymore. Isabelle had long lost track of how many times Damian had taken her down, but tonight was different—she was getting better.

Her body ached, muscles burning from the relentless drills, but she no longer expected mercy from him. Damian never praised, never comforted. If anything, he pushed harder when she showed progress.

And yet, as he circled her now, arms crossed, gaze sharp, there was something different in his expression.

"You're adapting," he finally said.

Not exactly a compliment, but Isabelle took it as one. She wiped sweat from her brow, breathing hard. "So, do I get a break, or is this where you tell me to run five miles on a broken ankle?"

The corner of his lips twitched. "Cute. But no. Training's over for now."

She frowned. Damian never called it early.

"Why?"

Instead of answering, he tossed her a towel and turned toward the door. "Get cleaned up. We're going out."

Her stomach twisted. The last time he took her somewhere, Victor had nearly torn her apart with just a few words.

"Where?" she asked warily.

Damian didn't turn back. "To find answers."

Buried Names

An hour later, Isabelle found herself stepping into a world she never knew existed.

The club was underground—literally. Hidden beneath an abandoned warehouse, the entrance required a password and a retinal scan, which Damian passed without hesitation.

The moment they entered, Isabelle knew she didn't belong here.

The air was thick with expensive cigars and danger. Conversations were hushed, but every whispered word carried an unspoken threat. Men and women sat in dimly lit booths, their gazes shifting, assessing. Killers. Informants. People who thrived in the shadows.

Damian led her past them all, straight to the back.

A man sat at a corner table, flipping a gold coin between his fingers.

He looked up, smirking. "Didn't expect you to bring company, Cross."

Damian pulled out a chair and gestured for Isabelle to sit. She hesitated before lowering herself into the seat.

The man—Reed—leaned forward, setting the coin down. "So, what's this about?"

Damian's voice was cold. "I need information. A name."

Reed chuckled. "And what do I get in return?"

Damian's tone didn't shift. "Your club stays open another month."

The amusement faded from Reed's face. He exhaled, rubbing his jaw. "Alright. What name?"

Damian slid something across the table. A photograph.

Isabelle frowned. She had never seen it before.

It was old, slightly faded. A group of men stood in front of a grand estate, dressed in suits, their expressions unreadable.

But her eyes weren't on the men.

Her breath hitched.

Behind them, engraved into the iron gate, was a symbol.

A crest.

And she knew it.

Somewhere, deep in her mind, she had seen it before.

Reed exhaled slowly, tapping a finger on the photo. "That's dangerous company you're looking into, Cross."

Damian's voice was razor-sharp. "Talk."

Reed smirked. "Ever heard of the Monroe Bloodline?"

The air in the room changed.

Isabelle stiffened.

Reed chuckled. "Guess that answers that."

Damian's gaze flicked to her for a fraction of a second before turning back to Reed. "Who were they?"

Reed leaned back. "Not were. Are. If you're digging into this, you better be sure you're ready for what you find."

Damian's patience thinned. "I don't have time for riddles."

Reed sighed. "Fine. The Monroes weren't just rich. They were kingmakers. Controlled politicians, military contracts, even underground networks. But fifteen years ago… they vanished."

"Vanished?" Isabelle whispered.

Reed's eyes locked onto hers. "Yeah. Some say they were wiped out in a power struggle. Others say they staged their own deaths."

Damian's expression remained unreadable, but Isabelle could feel the tension radiating off him.

"What does that have to do with her?" he asked.

Reed chuckled. "Cross, you're a smart guy. I think you already know."

Damian didn't move. Neither did Isabelle.

Because deep down, she knew what Reed was implying.

Her last name… Monroe.

The buried memories.

The symbol that felt too familiar.

Her voice was barely above a whisper. "Are you saying… I'm one of them?"

Reed simply smiled. "Not my place to say."

Damian stood abruptly, grabbing Isabelle's arm. "We're leaving."

She barely registered the people they passed, the way Damian moved like a shadow, pulling her out into the night.

Only when they reached the car did he release her.

Isabelle turned to him, chest heaving. "You knew."

Damian's jaw tensed. "I suspected."

Anger bubbled up inside her. "And you didn't think to tell me?!"

His gaze was cold. "I needed proof."

Her hands trembled. "So what now?"

Damian exhaled slowly. "Now? We find out who wants the last Monroe dead."