From Chains to Forever

Evelyn's hand froze on the doorknob, her heart slamming against her ribs. Damian Blackwood stood in the hallway of her hotel, his broad frame filling the doorway, his gray eyes dark with something she couldn't read—anger, maybe, or something deeper. In his hand was a crumpled photo, identical to the one she'd found in Vincent Kane's business card: her at the auction, emerald dress glowing under the lights, the word *Mine* scrawled in red. Her stomach churned. This was no coincidence. And Damian being here, now, in the middle of the night? That was no accident either.

"What the hell is this?" she demanded, her voice sharper than she meant. She stepped back, keeping the door half-open, not ready to let him in. Not ready to trust him.

Damian's jaw tightened, but he didn't move closer. "Can I come in? We need to talk."

"About what? You showing up at my hotel with some creepy photo? How do you even know where I'm staying?" Her words were a challenge, but her pulse was racing, fear and anger tangling in her chest.

"It's about Vincent Kane," he said, his voice low, steady, like he was trying not to spook her. "And what he's planning. You're not safe, Evelyn."

She laughed, sharp and bitter, but it didn't hide the tremor in her hands. "Safe? You think you can just barge in here, waving a photo, and I'll—what? Fall into your arms? I don't know you, Blackwood."

His eyes flickered, a flash of something—hurt, maybe?—before they hardened again. "I'm not asking you to trust me. I'm asking you to listen. Five minutes. Then I'll leave."

She hesitated, glancing at the photo in his hand. The same red ink, the same word that had haunted her for days. *Mine.* Whoever was behind this knew her moves, her life. And Damian, for all his intensity, didn't feel like the one sending them. Not yet. She stepped aside, letting him in, but kept her distance, arms crossed like armor.

"Talk," she said, leaning against the wall. "And make it quick."

---

Damian moved into the room, his presence overwhelming the small space. He set the photo on the coffee table, careful not to touch anything else, like he knew how on edge she was. Up close, he was even more striking—dark hair falling into his eyes, a faint scar above his brow she hadn't noticed before. But it was his intensity that got her, the way he looked at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

"Vincent Kane is dangerous," he started, his voice clipped, like he was holding back. "He's not just some producer with a big checkbook. He's got ties to people who don't play nice—people who'll do anything to get what he wants. And right now, he wants you."

Evelyn's throat tightened, Vincent's icy smile flashing in her mind. That business card, the way his fingers lingered on hers, the word *Mine* scrawled on the back. "Yeah, I got that," she said, nodding at the photo. "But what's your angle? Why do you care?"

Damian's eyes met hers, and for a moment, she saw something raw, unguarded. "Because I've seen what he does to people. Women like you—talented, ambitious. He doesn't just want to work with you, Evelyn. He wants to own you. And he'll break you to do it."

Her breath caught, not just at his words but at the way he said them, like he was fighting some battle she couldn't see. She wanted to snap back, to tell him she could handle herself, but the photos, the emails—they were starting to chip away at her bravado. "So what? You're my knight in shining armor? I don't buy it."

"I'm no knight," he said, a bitter edge to his voice. "But I can protect you. I have the resources, the connections. Vincent can't touch you if you're with me."

"With you?" She laughed again, but it sounded hollow. "What does that even mean?"

He took a step closer, and she stiffened, her back pressing against the wall. Not because she was scared—though part of her was—but because the air between them crackled, electric and dangerous. "Marry me," he said, the words dropping like a bomb.

She stared, her mind blank for a second. "You're insane."

"Maybe," he said, his voice steady despite the fire in his eyes. "But it's the only way. My name, my power—it's a shield. Vincent won't cross me. Not directly. Marry me, and you're untouchable."

Evelyn's head spun. Marriage? To a man she'd met *yesterday*? A billionaire who showed up at her door with cryptic warnings and a photo that screamed stalker? This was crazy. Beyond crazy. But there was something in his voice, a desperation that didn't match the cold, controlled man she'd seen in the conference room. Like he wasn't just offering protection. Like he needed this, too.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I'm not trading one cage for another. I don't even know you, Damian. Why should I believe you're any better than him?"

His jaw clenched, and for a moment, she thought he'd argue, push, demand. But he just ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. "You don't have to believe me. But you've seen the photos. The emails. You know something's wrong. And I'm telling you, Vincent's just getting started."

She swallowed, her mind flashing to the email from last night: *You can't run from what's already yours.* "And what's in it for you?" she asked, her voice quieter now. "Why go this far for me?"

He looked away, his gaze landing on the photo on the table. "Let's just say I know what it's like to lose something you can't get back."

The words hung between them, heavy with meaning she couldn't unravel. She wanted to push, to ask what he meant, but the intensity in his eyes stopped her. This wasn't just about her. There was a story behind Damian Blackwood, one she wasn't sure she was ready to hear.

"I need time," she said finally, her voice firm. "This is… a lot."

He nodded, stepping back, giving her space. "Fair. But don't take too long. Vincent doesn't wait." He pulled a card from his pocket—not like Vincent's, this one plain white with just a number scrawled in black ink. "Call me when you're ready. Day or night."

She took the card, her fingers brushing his, and that damn spark shot through her again, making her chest tight. She hated it—hated how he got under her skin, how his presence made her feel both safe and trapped. He turned to leave, but paused at the door, looking back.

"Lock your door tonight," he said. "And don't open it for anyone else."

Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving her alone with the photo, the card, and a thousand questions.

---

Evelyn didn't sleep. She couldn't. She sat on the couch, staring at Damian's card, then at the photo, then at her phone, where Claire's latest text sat unanswered: *No trace on the email. Working on it.* The room felt too small, the city outside too big. She was used to fighting—casting directors, doubters, her own demons—but this was different. This was a game she didn't know the rules to, and she was starting to feel like a pawn.

By morning, she was exhausted but wired, fueled by coffee and adrenaline. She had another meeting today, a pitch for a new project, and she couldn't afford to be off her game. But as she got ready, slipping into a navy jumpsuit that made her feel like she could take on the world, her mind kept circling back to Damian's offer. Marriage. It was absurd. Controlling. But the way he'd looked at her, the way he'd said *Vincent's just getting started*—it wasn't just a warning. It was a plea.

She shoved the thought away, grabbing her bag. She wasn't some damsel who needed a billionaire to save her. She'd built her career from nothing, survived a childhood that would've broken most people. She could handle Vincent Kane, creepy emails, and Damian Blackwood's intense stares. At least, that's what she told herself as she headed out the door.

---

The meeting was at a rooftop café, all glass tables and overpriced lattes. Evelyn was pitching to a producer named Marcus, a rare decent guy in the industry who'd championed her indie film. He was excited about her next project, a drama she'd been dreaming up for years—a story about a woman breaking free from her past. It was personal, raw, and she poured her heart into the pitch, her voice steady despite the chaos in her head.

"You've got something special, Evelyn," Marcus said, leaning back in his chair. "This could be huge. But you need to stay focused. There's a lot of noise out there right now."

"Noise?" she asked, her stomach tightening.

He hesitated, then slid his phone across the table. A gossip site was open, the headline screaming: *Rising Star Evelyn Hart Caught in Billionaire Love Triangle?* Below it was a blurry photo from the auction—her talking to Vincent, his hand too close to hers. Another shot, grainy but unmistakable, of Damian leaving her hotel last night.

Her blood ran cold. "What the hell is this?"

"Tabloid trash," Marcus said, waving a hand. "But it's gaining traction. You need to be careful. People like Vincent Kane and Damian Blackwood—they don't just bring attention. They bring trouble."

She forced a smile, her mind racing. The photos, the emails, now this. Someone was orchestrating this, turning her life into a spectacle. And she had a sinking feeling she knew who.

Her phone buzzed, a new email notification. Her hands shook as she opened it, Marcus's voice fading into the background. No subject line, just a single line of text: *Choose wisely, Evelyn. The clock's ticking.*

Attached was another photo—her, right now, at this café, her face pale as she read the headline. And across the bottom, in that same red ink: *Mine.*

She dropped the phone, her breath hitching. Marcus frowned, reaching for her. "You okay?"

But she couldn't answer. Because across the street, hidden in the shadows of a building, a figure watched her, his face obscured. And in her gut, she knew—Vincent or Damian, one of them was behind this. Or worse, they were working together.