Chapter 5 The penthouse

The private elevator rose without a sound, but Isabella's heart roared like thunder in her chest.

She was alone with him. Again.

Damian Knight stood beside her, motionless, composed, unreadable and with one hand in his coat pocket, the other gripping a phone that hadn't lit up once. He hadn't said a word since they stepped in, and yet his presence filled every inch of space between them. It wasn't loud. It was... unshakable.

Like a shadow that didn't need sunlight to exist.

She tried to keep still, but her fingers kept brushing against the edge of her coat. Her jaw tightened. Her breathing stilled, she tried not to fidget but her hands gave her away.

She stared straight ahead. She was trembling

He didn't look at her until the elevator reached the thirty-ninth floor. Then, almost without emotion, he turned his head slightly and said,

"You're shaking

"I'm not."

"You are."

She pressed her hands tighter in her lap. "I've never been in a penthouse before."

"You'll get used to it."There was no mockery in his tone. No warmth either. Just facts

The elevator stopped.

The doors slid open.

And just like that-Isabella stepped into another world.

The air smelled of quiet wealth-fresh linen, aged wood, and something faintly masculine. The floor was polished marble, cream and onyx veined like frozen lightning. The walls were smooth slate gray with elegant black paneling. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across the far side of the room, displaying Manhattan's glittering skyline in full.

Everything was curated. Every inch of space carried power with sharp angles, dark furniture, chrome accents, silence, masculine luxury and why dominance

This wasn't a home.

It was a kingdom.

It was a command center.

It didn't whisper comfort.

It demanded surrender.

She blinked. Then again.

There were no photos. No clutter. No signs that anyone truly lived here.

Only control.

"You'll sleep in the guest room," Damian said, already pulling off his coat. "To the left."

She still hadn't moved from the elevator entrance. Her heels clicked lightly on the marble when she finally took a hesitant step forward.

He shrugged off his coat and tossed it over the back of a black leather chair. Then he walked into the open-plan kitchen like he'd forgotten she existed.

"You don't talk much when you're afraid," he added, tossing the coat on the back of a leather chair. "I like that."

She turned slightly. "I'm not afraid."

He arched a brow. "Liar."

She flushed.

He stepped into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of something dark. Whiskey, probably. It fitted him,something bitter and clean.just like him.

"You should eat," he said. "You skipped lunch."

She hadn't realized it until he said it.

She hesitated by the hallway.

"What happens tomorrow?" she asked quietly.

He didn't look at her when he answered.

"Tomorrow, I hunt."

She shivered.

The guest room was bigger than any space she'd ever called her own. The sheets smelled like fresh linen and something faintly expensive like leather and oak. She peeled off her blazer, sat on the edge of the bed, and exhaled for the first time all day.

There was no television.

No distractions.

Just space.

And silence.

Was this really happening?

A man had followed her.

Threatened her.

And now... she was here. Hiding in the penthouse of a billionaire who looked at her like she was both a problem and a puzzle he couldn't put down.

What scared her more wasn't the note.

It wasn't the man who spoke her real name.

It was Damian Knight's voice when he said, "You belong to me."

Because a part of her believed him.

And a darker part didn't want to argue.

She stood restlessly and wandered the room. Her fingers trailed along the bookshelves. Most were hardbound. Thick, glossy, untouched. Titles like Power & Play, Behavioral Strategy, and Psychology of Loyalty.

One book was crooked.

She tilted her head.

It was the only one not aligned with the rest.

She reached out.

Pulled it.

Nothing happened.

No secret door. No dramatic reveal.

Just an ordinary book with thick pages.

She opened it casually and something slipped out.

A photo.

Her stomach clenched before her brain caught up.

She knelt and picked it up with shaking hands.

It was old. Faded. Creased in the middle.

And it was her.

She was seventeen. Pale. Wearing her Russian high school uniform, the navy blazer with the silver pin at the collar. Hair tied back. Cheeks slightly hollow.

She remembered that day.

The photo had been taken by someone on the school roof. Her father had been in the hospital. She'd been terrified that morning.

No one else had that picture.

No one.

Except....

Her hand flew to her mouth.

How?

The photo slipped from her fingers and fluttered to the floor like a confession.

That's when she heard his voice.

Low. Even. Dangerous.

"You shouldn't be touching things that don't belong to you."

She turned sharply.

Damian stood in the doorway, arms crossed, gaze locked on her.

But he wasn't angry.

He was... unreadable.

Worse than angry.

Because in his silence was a storm.

"How do you have this?" she asked.

Her voice was thin.

A thread.

He stepped inside. Closed the door behind him with a click that made her stomach knot.

She backed up slowly, until the back of her knees hit the bed.

His eyes never left hers.

Then, without blinking, he said something that changed everything.

"You're not the only one who ran from Russia."

The room seemed to shrink.

"What?"

"I knew your father," Damian said calmly. "Not well. But enough."

Her throat went dry.

"You knew him?"

He nodded once. "He was a complicated man. Powerful. Respected. Feared."

"You worked with him?"

"I watched him," he said. "And when the walls closed in on him... I watched you."

She took a step back.

Then quietly, she asked, "So you knew where I was this whole time?"

She swallowed.

"You hired me on purpose."

"I hired you because I needed someone smart, quiet, obedient... and not afraid of darkness."