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Damien Vale
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There are two kinds of silence.
The one that soothes.
And the one that consumes.
She gave me the latter—and I welcomed the ache.
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I watched her leave without looking back, her shoulders squared like she didn’t feel me staring at her retreating form.
But I knew better.
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Elena Rivers was fire in a locked glass case—burning behind that perfect composure, cracking behind every sharp word she used like armor.
I saw it. I always saw it.
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And now, I couldn’t stop.
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I leaned back in the leather chair of my office, the skyline a blur behind me. The city looked small from here—like everything else in my life. Manageable. Predictable.
Except her.
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A soft chime came from my phone.
One glance.
Her name.
An email—formal, clipped, business. Like I was just another client. Like last night hadn’t happened.
Like she hadn’t looked at me with trembling hands and a heartbeat that I could feel even across the room.
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I didn’t reply. Not yet.
Let her wonder. Let her remember.
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I got up and walked to the window. The glass was cold beneath my palm, but my blood was too hot, too thick. Obsession wasn’t new to me—I’d built empires off it. But this? This was different.
Elena didn’t need me.
She tried not to.
And maybe that’s what made me want her more than anything else I’ve ever had.
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I turned away, already dialing a number.
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"Find out where she’s going after work," I said quietly.
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"Sir?" my assistant responded, hesitating.
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"You heard me."
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Silence on the line. Then a reluctant “Yes, Mr. Vale.”
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I hung up.
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If she wouldn’t let me in through the front door, I’d find another way.
I wasn’t a patient man.
But for her, I could pretend.
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For a little while.
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