Chapter 2 - The House of Glass and ShadowsThe drive to Damian’s estate was a blur of neon lights and dark, winding roads. Leah sat between us, her hand firmly locked in mine. She didn't look at Damian; she didn't look at the window. She just leaned her head against my shoulder and fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.
The estate was a fortress of glass and steel perched on the edge of the cliffs overlooking the city. Inside, the house was clinical—cold, modern, and devoid of any warmth. It was a place designed for a man who believed that safety was found in visibility.
"Two years ago," Damian began once we were in his private study, a room lined with dark leather and heavy bookshelves, "I was told my wife had died in a tragic accident. I was told my daughter was the sole survivor, but that she had suffered a brain injury that rendered her mute."
I sat on the edge of the leather chair, still clutching my apron as if it were a shield. "And you believed it?"
"I had no reason not to," he said, pacing the floor. "I had doctors, therapists, and my own staff telling me the same thing. But there were gaps. Files that went missing. Notes from nurses who mysteriously resigned." He turned to me, his eyes burning. "When you walked in, Leah didn't just speak. She remembered."
"I was a nurse in training before I moved here," I confessed, the words spilling out before I could check them. "I was a student at the Zurich medical wing. I had been working to pay for my baby’s medical bills."
"You weren't just a nurse," Damian said, tapping a button on his desk. A digital screen descended from the ceiling. It showed a photo of me from two years ago—but I wasn't wearing an apron. I was wearing a lab coat, and I was standing next to a man I had spent two years trying to forget: Dr. Aris Vane, the surgeon who had delivered my baby.
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"Vane is a butcher," Damian whispered. "He specializes in illicit surrogacy and organ harvesting for the highest bidders. He told you your child died. He told me my daughter was mute because he needed me to be desperate—to be the kind of man who would pay millions for 'exclusive' care."
The room spun. My knees buckled. I had been a pawn in a game of monsters.
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