Chapter 5 Smoke, Mirrors, and Midnight Calls

I didn't leave my room that day. Damon's words clung to the air like fog, heavy and unshakable. They know you're asking questions now.

Who were "they"?

The house staff moved differently around me. Too polite. Too quiet. Like I had suddenly become a threat instead of the fake wife they were instructed to tolerate. One of them brought my breakfast; cold eggs, dry toast, and eyes that wouldn't meet mine.

I barely touched it.

Instead, I stared at the USB drive. I turned it over in my hand again and again, like it would somehow speak. Damon had given it to me. Trusted me with it, he said. But the basement, the files, the photos... the cold steel of the door locking behind me, all of it said otherwise. He trusted me the way one trusts a landmine: carefully, never fully, and only when there's no other choice.

By noon, I needed air.

I crept out of the room and down the hall to the balcony. The city below was a hum of normalcy; cars, sunlight, life. I envied it. There was a time not long ago when I was part of that chaos, nameless in a crowd. Safe in my invisibility. Before Damon. Before this cursed marriage.

My phone buzzed. No name. No ID.

I answered anyway.

"Amira," a distorted voice said. "If you want the truth, meet me at 77 Laurel Street. Tonight. Midnight. Come alone."

The line went dead.

My heart slammed into my ribs. I checked the call log. Nothing. Like it had never happened.

I didn't tell Damon.

I don't know why. Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was survival. Maybe I was tired of being kept in the dark and wanted to control something, anything!

When midnight came, I slipped out the side entrance. No heels. No makeup. Just a hoodie, jeans, and my heart in my throat.

Laurel Street was a dying part of town, abandoned buildings, broken streetlights, the stench of rust and rain. My Uber dropped me off two blocks away. I walked the rest.

77 was an old laundromat. Closed. Windows dusty. But the door creaked open when I pushed.

Inside, silence.

Then movement. A man stepped out from the shadows. Tall, unshaven, leather jacket. Early forties, maybe. He didn't smile.

"You're braver than I thought," he said.

"Who are you?"

"Someone who used to work for your husband. Before he paid me to disappear."

My blood ran cold.

He gestured for me to follow. In the back room, he handed me a folder. Paper. Old. Smelled like mildew.

"That USB he gave you? It's missing parts. This is the rest. The original files were split for security. Redundancy."

I flipped it open. Photos of Damon. Surveillance shots. Financial records. Bank transfers in names I didn't recognize. One name was circled in red.

Everett Blackwood.

Damon's father.

"What is this?"

"Insurance. Proof that the empire Damon inherited wasn't clean."

"So you're saying he killed his brother?"

The man hesitated. "I'm saying his family has blood on their hands. Damon just learned to wash it off better."

I closed the folder, chest tight. "Why are you giving me this?"

"Because you need to decide who you're really married to. The man? Or the monster they made him become."

Before I could respond, the door slammed open.

Damon.

His eyes locked on mine, jaw clenched.

"You followed me?" I breathed.

"You lied to me," he growled. "Again."

He grabbed my wrist, yanked me toward the door. The man didn't move. Just watched.

"Be careful, Mrs. Blackwood," he said. "You're not the first girl to get too close to the fire."

Damon dragged me into the night, threw open the car door.

"Get in."

"You're scaring me."

"Good. Maybe now you'll listen."

We drove in silence. My hands trembled. I hated the way his anger curled around me, but worse was the way his silence felt like betrayal.

"You want the truth, Amira?" he said finally. "Then buckle up. Because the game just changed."

To be continued...