Chapter 9 – The Things We Don't Say

Damien

The silence in his office was suffocating.

Damien stood by the window, the skyline glowing gold and gray beneath him. His glass sat untouched. His phone buzzed twice — once from Rafe, once from someone he didn't care enough to remember — and he ignored both.

All he could think about was the look on her face.

Not when the drink hit her.

Not when the room laughed.

But after.

When she looked at him like he was a stranger.

Like she didn't expect him to save her.

Like she had already stopped counting on him.

He hadn't moved when she walked out.

Hadn't spoken when Bianca made her little scene.

And now? Now he was alone with that choice.

He'd told himself it was control. That if he lashed out in public, it would make headlines. Questions. Chaos. That letting Bianca play her game would protect Elara from worse.

But that wasn't the truth.

The truth was crueler.

He had frozen. Not because he didn't care — but because he cared too much.

And that was the one thing he couldn't afford.

A knock.

Rafe stepped in without waiting.

"She's not talking to anyone," he said. "Not Tali. Not Lucy. Locked herself in."

Damien didn't turn. "Good."

Rafe scoffed. "Right. That's healthy."

Silence.

Rafe stepped forward. "You think she's weak?"

"No."

"Then why are you treating her like she is?"

Damien turned slowly. "Because I don't know how to protect her without destroying her."

Rafe stared at him. "Then maybe you shouldn't be the one protecting her."

Damien didn't respond.

He didn't need to.

The room said everything.

Elara

The sun was already down by the time Elara left her room.

She hadn't planned on going anywhere. But she couldn't breathe in that space anymore — not with Damien's silence still echoing off the walls.

She found herself in the club's private lounge, lights low, music softer. The VIP area was mostly empty — just a few regulars and a girl with too much eyeliner crying in a corner.

Elara poured herself a drink. Neat. No ice.

"You know that's top-shelf, right?"

She turned.

Lucy dropped into the chair beside her, draped in black as always.

"I don't care," Elara muttered.

Lucy raised a brow. "So, that's where we are."

"Don't start."

"I'm not judging. Just… watching."

Elara sipped. "What do you see?"

Lucy leaned forward. "I see a girl who's falling for a man who doesn't know how to be anything but a weapon."

Elara didn't answer.

Lucy tilted her head. "And I see a man who'd burn cities for you — but won't lift a finger if it means exposing his weakness."

The door opened.

Elara didn't need to turn around to know it was Damien.

His presence shifted the air.

Tension curled like smoke in her chest.

He walked slowly. No security. No smirk. Just him — and the quiet weight of something unsaid.

"Elara," he said, low.

She didn't look at him.

"You shouldn't be down here."

"Neither should you."

Silence.

Then—

"I was wrong," he said. "Back there. I should've stopped it."

She turned. Finally.

Her eyes were glass, but her voice was steel. "Then why didn't you?"

Damien's jaw worked. "Because if I show weakness, I put a target on your back. Bianca was testing you. If I jumped to your defense, I would've confirmed that you matter."

"I do matter."

"To me," he said. "That's the problem."

The words hung there.

Sharp.

Unavoidable.

"You think keeping your distance will protect me?" she whispered. "You think silence makes you strong?"

"No. I think love makes you weak."

Her heart cracked.

"Then don't love me," she snapped. "Problem solved."

Damien stepped closer. "Too late."

He kissed her like a man losing a war he never wanted to fight.

Hands on her waist. Mouth rough, then soft, then rough again.

And Elara let him — not because she forgave him, but because some part of her needed to feel like he was real. Like this wasn't all one long hallucination wrapped in champagne and blood.

When they finally broke apart, breathless and bruised, she stared at him.

And for the first time, he looked scared.

Not of her.

Of himself.

They didn't speak again that night.

He walked her back to her room.

Didn't cross the threshold.

Didn't say a word.

He just looked at her like she was something he never thought he'd find — and knew he couldn't keep.

She closed the door on him.

But neither of them slept.