Chapter 3 Shadows of the Past

Damien's POV (Elias Reed)

The city never slept, but from the glass walls of my penthouse, London looked tame reduced to glittering threads of light crawling across the Thames, traffic sliding like obedient veins through its concrete body. I should have felt in control. I always did when I looked down at the world from above, reminding myself that everything moved because I allowed it to.

Tonight, though, my reflection in the glass betrayed me. There was tension in my jaw. A flicker of distraction in my eyes.

Meera.

I hadn't expected her. Women usually came in categories; predictable, grasping, forgettable. They smiled when I wanted them to smile, laughed when I wanted them to laugh, and disappeared when I was finished. Meera didn't fit any category. She had laughed too naturally on the jet, answered my questions with honesty instead of polish. And she had looked at me not Damien Cross, billionaire, heir, and media darling but at me, like she could peel back the armor if she stared long enough.

That was dangerous.

Worse, I had slipped.

I could still hear the rasp of the foreign words on my tongue, sharp consonants cutting through the Paris night like broken glass. The phone call should have been routine updates from an associate in Zurich, coded numbers to shift assets, nothing unusual. But I had let the mask fall. I had spoken like the man I used to be, not the man I had built.

And Meera had heard.

I saw it in the way she turned too quickly when I ended the call, the tremor in her fingers as she adjusted the champagne glass. She hadn't understood the language, of that I was almost certain but suspicion was more dangerous than knowledge.

I poured myself a drink now, the burn of Scotch steadying the storm inside me. The penthouse was silent except for the hum of the city and the faint tick of the grandfather clock I kept more for intimidation than sentiment. My security chief, Rowe, had offered to sweep Meera after the date, to ensure she wasn't a liability. I had refused.

Not yet.

But my refusal wasn't logic. It was instinct, and instincts could get a man killed.

I sat, letting the Scotch roll across my tongue, and closed my eyes. For a moment, I wasn't in London. I wasn't Damien Cross.

I was back in a room reeking of mold and cigarette smoke, a single bulb swinging overhead. The sound of boots on concrete. A name that wasn't mine barked across the room. The crack of knuckles against bone.

Elias.

The real heir. The name that should have followed me, gilded my life, given me everything. But Damien Reed had been weak. Too arrogant to see betrayal forming in the shadows. I hadn't been.

My hand tightened on the glass until it creaked. No. I couldn't afford to let memory bleed into the present. Memory was weakness, and weakness had no place in the empire I had built.

Still, Meera's voice cut through, soft but unyielding: "What are you most afraid of?"

The answer should have been simple: exposure. But sitting across from her, watching candlelight catch the determination in her eyes, I had almost believed my fear was something else entirely.

The door buzzed at midnight, a sharp sound that jolted me back. Rowe stepped in without waiting for an invitation. Ex-military, broad-shouldered, his dark suit barely concealing the arsenal of weapons he carried. He respected me, but he didn't like me. That made him useful.

"You're sloppy," Rowe said without preamble, shutting the door behind him.

I arched a brow. "Careful, Rowe. Most people who speak to me like that end up without tongues."

"Most people don't watch your back like I do," he shot back. He dropped a folder on the table, photos sliding free. Meera, leaving her flat the morning after Paris, her hair loose, her expression thoughtful. Another, of her at her law firm, arguing in a conference room, sharp as steel. "She's not the type you usually keep around."

"Observant." I sipped the Scotch.

"She's curious. The wrong kind of curious."

I let silence stretch, heavy and deliberate. Rowe shifted but didn't retreat. That was why I kept him close, he didn't scare easy.

"She's already asking questions," he continued. "Your driver said she lingered when you dropped her off. Looked at the license plate like she wanted to memorize it."

I felt the faintest flicker of satisfaction. Meera wasn't like the others. She wasn't blinded by champagne and chandeliers. She noticed things. That made her dangerous, yes. But it also made her... intoxicating.

"She's not a problem," I said finally.

Rowe frowned. "Not yet. But the board is restless, Damien. The Zurich transfer spooked them. Too much movement too fast. And your little slip in Paris..."

My gaze snapped to him. "Careful."

He held it. "You think nobody noticed? Someone always notices."

I stood, the Scotch forgotten. "Do your job, Rowe. Keep the board quiet. Keep the streets quiet. I'll deal with Meera."

He hesitated, then gave a curt nod. But as he left, the warning in his eyes lingered.

Alone again, I paced the length of the penthouse, every step echoing against marble. My reflection followed me in the glass walls, but I barely recognized him. Damien Cross. Billionaire. Visionary. A man who had everything except the right to keep it.

Because beneath the tailored suits and penthouses, I was still the ghost of someone else. The shadow of Elias.

I had taken his name. His legacy. His empire. Piece by bloody piece, I had built myself into Damien, and no one had questioned it because no one dared. Money made ghosts disappear. Power rewrote history.

But Meera, she was a crack I hadn't accounted for.

I remembered the way she had looked at me across the table in Paris. Not dazzled, not intimidated. Searching. As if she knew there was another man beneath my skin.

And maybe... maybe she could see him.

I went to the balcony, letting the wind cut across my face. London sprawled endlessly, indifferent to my secrets. Somewhere down there, Meera was probably replaying the night just as I was. Wondering. Questioning.

The rational move was clear: end it. Send her flowers, a parting gift, and disappear before she tugged too hard at the threads.

But the thought of her smile, her honesty, her fire, I couldn't let it go. Not yet.

For the first time in years, I wanted something real. And that was the most dangerous desire of all.

My phone buzzed. A message, encrypted, from an old contact in Athens. Three words that chilled me more than any boardroom betrayal.

"He is here."

I stared at the screen, my heart pounding once, twice, before slamming into a relentless rhythm.

Damien. The actual Damien!

The real heir.

The ghost wasn't a memory anymore. He was flesh and blood, and he was in London.

And if Meera was already suspicious, if she looked too closely now... everything I had built could burn.

I closed my eyes, the city roaring in my veins.

Paris had been a mistake. Meera was a mistake.

But God help me, I wasn't ready to let go.

Not yet.