The Voss estate hadn't changed. Still marble and menace. Still lined with shadows that whispered secrets.
Elena stood at the grand entrance, suitcase in hand, pretending her heart wasn't trying to beat its way out of her chest. The driver had already disappeared, leaving her alone on the cold steps of a house that screamed power and pain.
Before she could knock, the door creaked open.
Damien.
He leaned against the doorframe, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, looking like temptation wrapped in silk and sin.
"Welcome home, Mrs. Voss," he said smoothly.
She didn't answer. Just walked past him with a chin held high and a silent vow to never let him see her unravel.
But the moment she crossed the threshold, it hit her—the scent. His scent. Wood smoke and stormy nights and a faint memory of kisses she should've forgotten.
"Elena," he murmured behind her, voice dipped in warning and want.
"I'm here because of the contract," she snapped, dropping her suitcase at the base of the stairs. "Let's not pretend it's anything else."
"Of course," he said, lips twitching with amusement. "Let's keep it... professional."
But she could feel his eyes burning into her as she walked away.
Upstairs, the guest room was palatial—gold-trimmed walls, silk sheets, and a mirror that felt like it was judging her. She didn't unpack. What was the point? She wasn't staying longer than she had to.
She stared at herself in the mirror. Same sharp jawline. Same guarded eyes. But under it all, she felt the weight of something shifting. A game had begun. One she never wanted to play again.
---
Later that night, the sound of laughter echoed from the dining hall. Elena stayed in her room until hunger won. She walked in quietly, only to freeze.
The entire Voss family was there.
Madam Voss at the head—chilling in a blood-red gown. Lucien lounging like a viper waiting to strike. Damien, at the far end, nursing a glass of scotch like he owned the world.
"Elena," Lucien said smoothly. "So good to see you again. We were just talking about you."
She took a seat across from him, ignoring the eyes.
"I'm sure it was flattering," she said coolly.
"Not exactly," Madam Voss cut in. "But necessary. You being here has… consequences."
Damien's jaw tightened.
"She's here as my wife," he said. "That should be enough."
"For now," Lucien said, swirling his wine. "But the board won't like this. Bringing in an outsider—especially one with a history."
Elena's eyes flicked up. "What history?"
Lucien smiled. "Oh, sweetheart. You really think we didn't know about your little scandal? Your breakdown after he left you?"
"Lucien." Damien's voice dropped to a warning.
But the damage was done. Her hand curled into a fist under the table.
"Don't worry," Lucien added, grinning. "We all have skeletons. You're just the only one naive enough to bury yours shallow."
She stood, pride burning hotter than the embarrassment. "I'm not here to play mind games with a man who clearly lost to his younger brother."
Lucien's smile faltered for a second. Just enough.
Then Damien stood too.
"Elena," he said gently. "Come with me."
---
In the corridor, his hand grazed her arm. "Ignore Lucien. He's testing you."
"I don't care about your family's tests." She jerked away. "But I do care about being blindsided in a room full of sharks."
"I didn't know he'd bring up your past."
"No?" She laughed bitterly. "You're the reason I have one."
Silence.
She regretted saying it the moment it passed her lips.
"I know," Damien said finally, voice tight. "And I'll carry that guilt until the day I die. But I won't apologize for wanting you back."
"You don't want me, Damien," she hissed. "You want control. Like always."
He stepped closer, eyes dark. "And you want to pretend you don't still feel this."
The tension between them snapped taut. Heat. Anger. Memory.
But she turned away.
"Goodnight, Mr. Voss."
---
She couldn't sleep. The house breathed secrets. Every creak, every breeze felt like a ghost reaching for her.
Her feet took her down the hall, past old paintings and locked doors, until she found herself at that room.
His study.
It used to be their favorite escape—where they would read, laugh, touch, dream.
The door was slightly open.
She stepped inside, swallowed by shadows and the smell of leather-bound memories.
Books lined the walls, untouched. A decanter of bourbon glinted on the desk. And there, on the shelf, sat the one thing that made her chest seize.
A photograph.
Her. Him. Smiling. Happy. Before everything burned.
She picked it up, thumb brushing the frame, just as the door clicked behind her.
"Couldn't stay away?" Damien's voice was low.
She turned, startled. "Why is this still here?"
"Because I couldn't let go," he said simply. "Even when I wanted to."
She looked at him—truly looked. The man before her wasn't just dangerous. He was damaged.
And maybe, so was she.
She put the photo down.
"This changes nothing," she whispered.
"Then why are you crying?" he asked, stepping closer.
Only then did she realize—her cheeks were wet.
---
Later, in the dark quiet of her room, Elena lay awake, heart pounding.
She had returned to get answers, to survive, to win.
But all she'd found were shadows of the past.
And the terrifying thought that maybe… she still felt everything she swore she buried.