The Absence

Chapter Seven: The Absence

Damian strode through the private elevator doors of his corporate tower, his suit still dusted with forest ash.

No one dared comment.

His aura was darker than usual—commanding, rigid, barely leashed. His Beta, Rafe, had offered to handle the aftermath, but Damian needed to be back in the world of suits and skyscrapers. Needed to feel human again, even if it was all a performance.

The receptionist barely looked up when she saw him.

He paused by his assistant's desk. "Where is she?"

"Sir?" she blinked.

"The cleaner. The girl from earlier this week. Luna."

The assistant glanced at the schedule, confused. "She didn't show up today. Actually... she hasn't reported in since yesterday."

Damian's brows drew together. "Did she quit?"

I have been so busy I forgot about her ..He muttered to himself.

"No, sir. At least not formally. The manager said she left in a hurry after being reprimanded… they thought she might not come back."

Damian didn't respond. He turned sharply, retreating into his office—but once the door clicked shut behind him, the mask cracked.

He paced.

Something gnawed at him. A tension he couldn't name. He had lived a long time, sensed danger before it struck. And right now, his instincts were screaming.

She wouldn't just disappear.

Not after the way she looked at him that night.

She'd been fragile—yes—but strong, too. Fierce in her pain.

Still, he remembered the flinch in her voice when she mentioned her home. The quiet way she said she had no one.

What if something happened?

The idea lodged like a knife between his ribs.

He grabbed his phone and dialed one of his silent informants—someone with access to employee records, street-level surveillance, whatever he needed.

"I want an address for a girl named Luna Graye," he said coldly. "She works for our janitorial division. She didn't show today. I want eyes on her now."

He hung up before they could reply.

But even then, unease pulsed in his chest.

Because something inside him—a part he'd buried long ago—was whispering one terrible thought:

What if I'm already too late?

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The Edge of Silence

The old park was a ghost of its former self.

Once filled with laughter, sunshine, and the scent of roasted corn from nearby vendors, it now stood in ruins—overgrown grass, rusted swings, and silence. A chain-link fence hung crooked at the entrance, a faded "CLOSED" sign swaying with the breeze.

But Luna slipped through a gap in the fence like she had so many times as a child.

Her shoes crunched over dead leaves and broken glass. She walked past the swings and headed straight to the bench near the dried-up fountain—the one where her father used to sit while she played. The bench was worn now, the paint peeling, but she could still see his smile in her mind. Still hear his voice.

"One day, you'll be free, Luna. One day, this world will stop hurting you."

She let out a bitter laugh as tears welled in her eyes.

He lied.

Pulling her knees up to her chest, Luna reached into her coat pocket and drew out the small, worn pocketknife—her father's.

He used to carry it everywhere. Said it made him feel like he could protect his family. It had been left behind after the funeral, and she'd kept it all these years, hidden like a secret.

She turned it over in her trembling hands.

I'm so tired.

Her mind spun with Miranda's voice, her brothers' laughter as they mocked her, the manager's cruel words, the constant aching in her back and bones, the emptiness she carried like a second skin.

No one saw her. No one cared.

Except... maybe one person.

For a fleeting moment, she thought of Damian. The way his eyes had softened that night. The way he had stepped between her and those men.

But that had to be a fluke. A moment.

Men like him didn't stay. They didn't save girls like her.

She opened the blade.

Her fingers shook.

The sky above turned grey, clouds shifting like they, too, were mourning.

Luna stared at her wrist.

Just one cut. One moment. One breath away from silence.

She closed her eyes. Her thumb pressed against the cool edge of the blade.

And then—

A sound.

Footsteps. Fast. Heavy.

"Luna!"

Her eyes snapped open.

Damian stood on the other side of the rusted fence, chest heaving, eyes locked on hers.

For a second, she couldn't breathe.

He climbed through the gap without hesitation, his expensive suit tearing against the sharp metal. He didn't stop. Didn't speak again until he was kneeling in front of her.

"Put it down," he said, voice low, raw. "Please."

She looked at him, dazed.

"How did you—?"

"I felt it." His eyes never left hers. "I don't know how, but I felt it."

Her hands trembled harder. A sob rose in her throat.

"I can't do this anymore," she whispered. "I don't want to fight anymore."

"You don't have to," he said gently. "Not alone."

She looked at him—really looked—and for the first time, she saw past the wealth, the arrogance, the mystery.

She saw pain.

Scars.

Someone who knew what it meant to break… and keep walking anyway.

Slowly, Luna lowered the knife and let it fall into the grass.

Damian exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

Then, without asking, he reached for her—and she didn't resist.

For the first time in years, she let someone hold her while she cried.

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