The sleek black car pulled through the iron gates of Blackthorne Villa, the estate's looming silhouette standing stark against the dim evening sky. The moment the tires crunched against the stone-paved driveway, Damien wasted no time.
The second the car came to a stop, he stepped out, rolling his shoulders, the faint ache in his jaw barely a nuisance anymore. It was a minor injury, but he had no interest in letting it linger.
Without a word, he strode through the grand entrance, his steps measured, his pace unhurried—but his mind was already moving ahead.
The villa was silent, save for the occasional flicker of candlelight reflecting off the polished floors, casting long shadows against the towering walls. It was a place of wealth, of cold, detached luxury, a house that exuded power but lacked warmth.
Just the way it had always been.
Elysia followed behind, ever silent, ever composed.
