Chapter 7 The Girl Before Me

It started with a drawer.

A single drawer. Locked. Quiet. Unassuming.

But in a house where every hallway whispered Damien's rules, the things he kept behind locks spoke the loudest.

He was away for the evening. A late board meeting with investors, according to the assistant who spoke more like a soldier than staff. Isla didn't ask questions. She didn't care where he was.

She only cared that he wasn't here.

Because tonight, silence meant opportunity.

She had waited weeks-watched patterns, memorized footfalls. And now, Damien's study sat open and unattended, the staff dismissed or busy elsewhere.

She slipped inside.

The scent of him clung to the room-dark cologne, leather, ink. The space was just like him: precise, masculine, cold. A heavy mahogany desk dominated the center, and the wall behind it bore no family photos, no degrees, no memories. Just one painting, abstract and blood-red.

Isla moved slowly, her bare feet silent against the polished wood floors.

The drawer was in the lower right.

Always locked.

But not tonight.

Someone had left it partially open.

Almost... inviting.

She didn't hesitate.

She knelt, slid it open further...

And froze.

Inside, there were photos.

Dozens of them. Some loose, some inside a worn leather album with frayed edges. All of them black-and-white or softly faded, like they'd been kept for years.

And in almost every single one...

A girl.

Late teens, maybe early twenties. Long hair, deep eyes. A soft, quiet smile. Pretty in the way Isla used to be before the dresses and diamonds and shadows.

But what made Isla's fingers go cold wasn't the girl's beauty.

It was the fact that she looked almost exactly like Isla.

Same sharp cheekbones. Same full lips. Same shape of chin and slender frame.

For a moment, it felt like looking at a life she hadn't lived.

A girl she could have been.

Or... might still become.

Isla flipped the album cover open.

More of the same girl.

In gardens. At a piano. Reading a book under a tree.

Some of the photos had been damaged-creased, water-stained, even torn. A few were marked with dates in Damien's handwriting. And one had a single word written beneath it in black ink:

"Lena."

Her name was Lena.

Isla touched the corner of the photo with shaking fingers.

Who was she?

Why did Damien keep her hidden?

Why did she look like Isla?

She didn't hear the door open.

But she felt the shift in the air.

The temperature dropped.

The hair on her neck stood up.

And then-his voice, low and dangerous behind her.

"What are you doing in here?"

Isla rose slowly, spine straightening. She didn't hide the photo in her hand.

"I wanted to know," she said quietly.

"Know what?"

"Who she was."

A pause.

Damien didn't move from the doorway. He didn't speak. But something in his eyes sharpened, fractured.

"She looked like me," Isla said, holding up the photo. "Tell me why."

He stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him.

"I told you not to touch anything locked."

"It wasn't locked tonight."

"It should've been."

She searched his expression, but it was unreadable. Not ice this time.

Glass.

Ready to shatter.

"Who was she?" Isla asked again. "Your lover? Your wife?"

Silence.

And then-

"My fiancée," Damien said. "Five years ago."

Isla's breath hitched.

He walked to the desk, took the photo from her hand, and looked at it like it hurt.

"She died."

The words landed with weight. Not spoken with sorrow. Just truth.

"How?"

"Wrong place. Wrong time."

That wasn't an answer.

"She was kidnapped," he said after a pause. "Held for ransom. They knew who I was. Thought they could get something out of me."

Her heart twisted. "What happened?"

"They sent her back in a box."

Isla's knees nearly gave out.

"And you never found who did it?"

"Oh, I found them," Damien said, voice quiet as a tomb. "And they paid. Every one of them."

The air between them buzzed with something sharp and awful.

"But not before she died," Isla said, voice barely above a whisper.

"No," he said. "Not before."

She swallowed hard. "So what now? You collect women who look like her?"

He didn't flinch. "I didn't buy you because you looked like her."

"Then why?"

His eyes locked on hers.

"Because you looked like someone who could survive me."

She stepped back. "You think this is survival?"

"I know what it is."

"And what is that, Damien?" Her voice rose. "What is this thing between us?"

"A war," he said, stepping closer. "And you're already bleeding."

She slapped him.

It landed hard , sharp across his cheek.

His head turned, jaw tight, but he didn't strike back.

He just stood there, skin flushed, breathing slow.

"I'm not Lena," she whispered, eyes burning. "And I never will be."

He didn't blink. "I know."

"Then stop treating me like a shadow you're trying to bring back."

"I'm not."

"Then what are you doing?"

He stared at her. Then stepped forward, grabbed her wrist-not rough, but firm. Like a man holding onto something slipping.

"I'm trying to see if you'll break."

She ripped her arm away. "And if I do?"

He gave her a dark smile.

"I'll rebuild you the way I want."

---

Isla left the study before she could cry in front of him.

She locked her bedroom door, climbed into bed, and stared at the ceiling while her heart tried to glue itself back together.

She had thought she was just a prisoner.

But now she realized-

She was a replacement.

And maybe... a weapon forged in another woman's fire.