Shadows of the Past

Elena didn't wait to finish her drink. The moment she sensed the shift in Damian's energy—his calculated patience, the way he studied her like a puzzle waiting to be solved—she made her decision.

She stood abruptly, throwing cash onto the bar. "It was nice meeting you, Damian." A lie. A warning.

He didn't stop her. Not physically. But his voice caught her mid-step.

"Running already?"

She paused but didn't turn around. "Just leaving."

Silence. Then—

"I wonder if that's what he thought too."

Her blood turned ice cold.

Slowly, she faced him, her mask firmly in place. "What did you just say?"

Damian leaned back in his chair, swirling the whiskey in his glass like he had all the time in the world. "That night, when you left him behind. Did you think you'd outrun it forever?"

Elena's fingers twitched. A well-trained instinct screamed at her to disappear. But it was too late. Damian knew.

About him.

About her past.

She took a slow, deliberate step toward him, lowering her voice to a deadly whisper. "Who sent you?"

Damian exhaled, setting his drink down with a soft clink. "No one."

She didn't believe him. Not for a second.

"You don't just walk into a bar and drop that on a stranger," she pressed. "So tell me, Damian—what the hell do you want?"

For the first time, something flickered in his gaze—something dark, something almost... personal.

"To make sure you're not the one I'm hunting."

Elena's heart pounded, but she masked it with a scoff. "And if I am?"

Damian leaned in just enough for her to feel his breath against her skin.

"Then, sweetheart… you have a much bigger problem than me."

Her stomach tightened. The game had changed.

And this time, she wasn't sure if she was playing against him—or with him.