They Won’t Let Me Go

Damien's face darkened.

"Is this some game to get my attention?" He sneered. "Stop the drama, Elara. This is childish."

"A tantrum?"

I repeated the word, tasting it.

"You're right. I'm not a child. I'm old enough to know what stupid looks like."

"Enough," his voice was a warning. "Leo needs you. You can't just abandon him over a momentary impulse."

"Needs me?" I turned, looking him straight in the eye. "Or does he need his nanny?"

"What are you talking about?"

"The truth," I said, walking to the safe and entering the code. "Eight years ago, my father sent me here. He was desperate for your protection, for business. The deal was simple—I take care of your son. In return, you protect my family."

Damien's expression shifted. "That wasn't all of it."

"Of course not." I took out a key and a copy of a ledger. "I also had to be her. Her ghost. Wear her clothes, her perfume. Copy that goddamn smile."

"Elara—"

"But you never made it official, did you?"

I placed the key and the document on the desk in front of him. "For eight years, the official title was 'Guardian's Assistant.' A glorified nanny."

Damien stared at the items.

The estate's master security key and a copy of the family's financial ledgers.

"You went through the financials?"

"Went through them?" I scoffed. "Damien, you put me in charge of household expenses. Of course I know every entry. Including the monthly 'allowance' you send my father."

He was silent for a few seconds, then suddenly grabbed my wrist.

"Fine. What do you want? A title?" His voice was tight. "You want to be Mrs. Volkov? Done. Marry me. Be the real lady of this house."

I looked at the hand gripping my wrist.

He was still wearing his wedding ring. Her ring. She’d been dead for eight years.

"Let go of me."

"I'm serious," he hissed, his grip tightening like a vise. "Money. Power. A title. Name it. It's yours."

"What I want, you can never give me."

I wrenched my hand free and backed toward the door.

"What do you want?" There was a hint of desperation in his voice.

"Freedom."

The word hit him like a bullet.

Damien's face turned to stone.

"Freedom?" he scoffed. "I gave you a palace. Cars. A black card with no limit. Women would kill for your life."

"Then go find one of them."

I reached for the door, but it was locked.

Damien pulled a key from his pocket, a cold smile on his face.

"I thought we could discuss this rationally," he said, tearing the ledger copy into pieces. "But clearly, you need some time to cool off."

The shreds of paper fluttered to the floor like snow.

"You're locking me in?"

"I'm protecting my family," he gestured to the door. "And that includes protecting you from yourself."

Footsteps approached.

Two bodyguards appeared at the door.

"No one in or out of this room until she comes to her senses," Damien ordered.

The door slammed shut.

I was alone in the studio, surrounded by the antiques I’d carefully collected.

Now they just looked like decorations in a prison cell.

I walked to the window and looked down at the garden.

There was a small memorial stone there, engraved with a date: April 15, 2016.

The day Krista died.

And the day I arrived.

Our so-called "anniversary" was never about me.

It was Damien and Krista's wedding anniversary.

And I was just her shadow, brought in on that special day.

Eight years.

I'd lived a lie for eight years.

Suddenly, a steel ball hit my forehead.

The pain made me whip around.

Leo was standing on the balcony of the building opposite, holding a slingshot.

"You're still here?" his voice was vicious, dripping with malice. "Next time, it won't be a steel ball. It'll be a bullet. Right between your eyes."