Chapter 9. The Burn Beneath the Ice
The next morning dawned grey and thick with mist, casting the city in a quiet hush, as if the sky itself knew something was shifting.
Elara stood by the penthouse window, holding a cup of untouched tea. Below, traffic crawled like ants. Above, clouds hung low and heavy, the kind that promised storms.
She hadn’t slept.
Not because she was afraid.
But because for the first time in weeks, she knew something that made her dangerous.
Damien’s study was locked again.
Not that it mattered, she had made a copy of the keycard. He hadn’t noticed. Or maybe he had, and chose to let her think otherwise.
Their cold war had become something else entirely now, a game of veiled truths and sharp-edged trust.
He entered the room without knocking, dressed in all black. No tie. No smile.
"You’re up early," he said, his voice rough.
"You didn’t come to bed."