Chapter 15 – The First Crack
Damian hadn't spoken a word since the elevator ride down from the penthouse. Elara sat across from him in the back of the black Maybach, her arms crossed, her spine stiff against the leather seat. Outside the tinted window, Manhattan blurred past—glass, steel, and motion—but inside the car, time had slowed into silence.
He was furious. She could see it in the clenched line of his jaw, in the way his hand tapped an angry rhythm against his thigh.
"Elara," he said finally, voice low. "Do you have any idea what you did back there?"
She turned to him, her eyes narrowed. "I saved your company from another PR disaster. Again."
"You defied me in front of the board."
"They were out for blood. They wanted weakness. If I'd let you sit there cold and mute, Monroe would've eaten you alive. So yeah, I spoke up."
His nostrils flared, but instead of snapping back, he leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. His voice dropped, now calm—too calm.
"I don't need you making decisions for me, Elara. Especially not in a room where power is perception."
She leaned forward too, unafraid. "You brought me into this marriage to be your shield, remember? Then let me do what I'm good at."
Damian's eyes locked on hers. "You're not my equal in that room."
She blinked. The words sliced clean through her composure. Not because he was wrong—she wasn't born into boardrooms and billion-dollar deals—but because he said it like a fact. Like a limitation.
The old Elara would've shrunk back. But that version of her was buried, somewhere between the wedding contract and the moment she realized no one was coming to rescue her.
She exhaled slowly. "No, I'm not your equal. Not yet. But you're a fool if you think I'll stay beneath you forever."
A flicker passed across his face—surprise? amusement? She couldn't tell.
The car pulled up outside VossTech Tower. The sun had fully set now, and the building glowed like a beacon above them. Damian stepped out first, offering no hand. Elara followed, brushing past him into the lobby.
Inside the elevator, they rode in silence until the 54th floor. The doors opened to the executive wing. Damian didn't get off.
"Elara," he said before the doors could close. "Don't ever speak for me again. Not unless I ask."
Her jaw tightened. "Then try asking. You might be surprised what happens when you treat me like a partner instead of a pawn."
She stepped out and let the doors shut in his face.
Later that night, Elara sat on the edge of the guest bedroom bed, laptop open, surrounded by files Gregory had hidden inside an old hollowed-out book she'd found in her childhood home two weeks ago. She hadn't dared look at them until now. Not after everything with the marriage. Not after the press, the gala, the lawyers.
But tonight felt different.
Damian's arrogance had reawakened something in her—a sharpness, a hunger. If he wanted her to stay in her place, fine. But she'd decide what that place was.
She opened the file labeled "VossMon Archive: 2017." Inside were dozens of scanned documents—emails, balance sheets, internal memos. One thread caught her eye: correspondence between her father and someone named R.L. The messages were vague, referencing meetings and codes, but the tone was urgent. Desperate.
Then she found a line in Gregory's scrawled handwriting:
"The money wasn't mine. I followed orders. He said it was to protect her."
Her breath caught.
Her?
She clicked the next document. It was a wire transfer. Massive—seven million dollars. From a Monroe Industries offshore account… to a shell company that tied back to Gregory Vale.
Her stomach twisted.
Damian had always believed her father was corrupt. Maybe he was. Maybe he wasn't. But one thing was clear now—there was more to this than stolen money. There were pieces missing.
And "her" might've been someone Gregory was trying to protect.
At two in the morning, Elara padded barefoot into the kitchen. She needed coffee. Or sleep. Probably both.
To her surprise, the kitchen lights were on.
Damian stood at the marble island, sleeves rolled up, a glass of whiskey in one hand, his phone in the other. His eyes flicked up as she entered.
"You're still awake," he said.
She ignored the small thrill in her chest. "So are you."
A pause. He set his phone down.
"I shouldn't have said what I did earlier," he admitted, slowly. "About you not being my equal."
Her brows lifted. "Wow. An apology. Mark this date in history."
He gave her a look. "Don't get used to it."
She smirked, but it faded quickly. "You're right though. I'm not your equal. I didn't grow up in billion-dollar boardrooms. But I'm not afraid to walk into them anymore."
He looked at her then, something unreadable in his eyes.
"You remind me of someone," he said.
"Your ex?" she asked, a little too sharply.
"No," he said softly. "My mother."
The kitchen felt colder suddenly.
"She used to say the only way to survive men like my father was to be smarter than them. Colder, if necessary."
Elara's voice was quiet. "Is that why you became who you are?"
His jaw tensed. "I became who I had to be."
They stood in silence. Two strangers, married, trapped in a war neither of them had fully defined.
Elara turned to go, but paused at the doorway.
"Next time we walk into a boardroom together," she said without looking back, "don't expect me to stand behind you. I'll be beside you. Or ahead."
She left him there—silent, staring, and more shaken than he cared to admit.