From Chains to Forever

Evelyn's heart hadn't stopped racing since she saw that photo—her at the café, the word *Mine* scrawled in red, and that shadowy figure across the street. She sat in her hotel room now, the tabloid article open on her laptop, its headline screaming: *Rising Star Evelyn Hart Caught in Billionaire Love Triangle?* The blurry shots of her with Vincent Kane and Damian Blackwood felt like a punch to the gut. Someone was turning her life into a circus, and she was done being the main act.

She grabbed her phone, her thumb hovering over Damian's number. His card, that plain white slip with his scrawled handwriting, sat on the table next to the crumpled "Mine" photo he'd brought last night. His words echoed in her head: *Marry me… You're not safe.* Part of her wanted to scream at him, demand answers about how he was tied to this mess. Another part—the part she hated—felt a flicker of trust, like maybe he was the only one who could stop it.

She dialed before she could talk herself out of it. He picked up on the first ring.

"Evelyn," Damian said, his voice low, urgent, like he'd been waiting for her call. "Are you okay?"

"No, I'm not okay," she snapped, pacing the room. "I'm staring at a gossip site that's got my name plastered next to you and Vincent Kane. And then there's this new photo—another one with that damn word on it. Taken *today*. So you tell me, Damian, how are you mixed up in this?"

Silence on the other end, but she could almost hear him thinking, calculating. "Where are you?" he asked finally.

"My hotel. And don't you dare show up here again unless you're ready to tell me the truth."

"I'm coming," he said, and the line went dead.

She cursed under her breath, tossing the phone onto the couch. Her hands were shaking, not just from anger but from fear. Those photos, those emails—they weren't just pranks. Someone was watching her every move, and now the world was watching too. She glanced at the tabloid article again, her stomach twisting at the thought of casting directors, producers, her fans seeing this. She'd worked too hard to let her career get derailed by some billionaire power game.

---

Damian arrived in under twenty minutes, which meant he'd been close—too close. When she opened the door, he looked different from last night. His suit was gone, replaced by a black sweater and jeans, his hair a little mussed, like he'd been running his hands through it. But those gray eyes were as intense as ever, locking onto her like she was the only thing that mattered.

"You look like hell," she said, stepping aside to let him in. It wasn't true—he looked annoyingly good—but she needed to keep the upper hand.

He didn't smile, just stepped inside, his gaze sweeping the room like he was checking for threats. "You saw the article," he said, not a question.

"Yeah, and it's a disaster," she said, crossing her arms. "My manager's freaking out, my pitch meeting today was a mess because of it, and now I've got another creepy photo. So start talking, Damian. Why's my life suddenly a tabloid headline? And don't give me that 'Vincent's dangerous' crap. I need details."

He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck, a rare crack in his composed facade. "Vincent Kane has a history," he said, his voice low, deliberate. "He doesn't just go after roles or deals—he goes after people. Women, specifically. Actresses, models, anyone with a spark he wants to snuff out. A few years ago, there was a singer, Mia Reynolds. She was on the rise, like you. Vincent got obsessed. Promised her the world, then used her past against her—blackmail, rumors, you name it. She disappeared from the industry. No one's heard from her since."

Evelyn's throat tightened. She'd heard whispers about Mia, a cautionary tale in acting circles, but never the full story. "And you think he's doing the same to me?"

"I know he is," Damian said, his eyes darkening. "Those photos, the emails—they're his playbook. He's trying to scare you, make you feel like you've got no one to turn to. Except him."

She swallowed, the memory of Vincent's icy smile flashing in her mind. His business card, the way he'd leaned too close, the word *Mine* on the back. "And you're different?" she challenged, stepping closer, her voice sharp. "You show up with the same photo, tell me to marry you out of nowhere, and I'm supposed to believe you're the good guy? For all I know, you're in on this with him."

Damian's jaw clenched, and for a second, she thought he'd snap back. But he just looked at her, his gaze softening in a way that made her chest ache. "I'm not a good guy, Evelyn," he said quietly. "I've done things I'm not proud of. But I'm not Vincent. I don't want to break you. I want to keep you safe."

"Then why marriage?" she demanded, her voice rising. "Why not just… I don't know, hire me a bodyguard? Why does it have to be something so extreme?"

He stepped closer, close enough that she could smell his cologne—cedar and something darker, like a storm. "Because a bodyguard isn't enough," he said. "Vincent's got connections—press, police, you name it. My name, my ring on your finger, makes you untouchable. He won't cross me. Not like this."

She laughed, sharp and disbelieving, but it came out shaky. "You're asking me to sign my life away. To you. A guy I met two days ago. Do you hear how insane that sounds?"

"I know," he said, his voice softer now, almost pained. "And I know you don't trust me. You shouldn't. But I'm telling you, Evelyn, this is the only way to stop him before he ruins you."

She stared at him, her mind a mess of fear and defiance. She wanted to tell him to get out, to handle this herself, but the photos, the tabloid, Vincent's lingering touch—they were all closing in. And Damian, for all his intensity, didn't feel like the enemy. Not entirely.

"What's in it for you?" she asked, her voice quieter now. "You're not doing this out of the goodness of your heart. So what do you get?"

He looked away, his jaw tight, like the question cut deeper than she'd meant it to. "Maybe I'm tired of watching people like Vincent win," he said finally. "Maybe I see something in you worth protecting."

Her breath caught, and for a moment, the room felt too small, the air too thick. She wanted to push back, to call him out, but there was something in his voice—something raw, like he was laying a piece of himself bare. She didn't know what to do with it.

"I need to think," she said, stepping back, breaking the spell. "I'm not saying yes. But I'm not saying no. Not yet."

He nodded, his eyes searching hers. "That's enough for now. Just… don't wait too long. Vincent's moving faster than you think."

He turned to leave, but paused, pulling another card from his pocket. This one had an address scribbled on it. "Meet me here tomorrow night," he said. "Neutral ground. We'll talk more. Bring someone if you want—your friend, Lila. I'm not trying to trap you."

She took the card, her fingers brushing his, and that damn spark flared again, making her heart stutter. "Fine," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "But if I show up, it's for answers. Not promises."

He gave her a small, almost sad smile. "I'll take what I can get."

---

The next day was a blur of meetings and damage control. Claire was in crisis mode, fielding calls from reporters sniffing around the tabloid story. Evelyn kept her head down, focusing on her pitch for the drama project, but every glance at her phone made her stomach twist. No new emails, but the silence felt worse, like the calm before a storm.

By evening, she was exhausted, her nerves frayed. She hadn't told Lila about Damian's proposal—couldn't bring herself to say the word *marriage* out loud—but she'd texted her the address, asking her to come along. Lila had replied with a string of shocked emojis and a promise to be there. Evelyn wasn't sure what she was walking into, but she wasn't going alone.

The address was a private rooftop bar, all sleek glass and city lights. Evelyn arrived early, her black dress sharp and professional, her curls loose to hide the tension in her shoulders. Lila was already there, sipping a cocktail and eyeing the crowd like a hawk.

"This place screams money," Lila said, sliding a drink toward her. "You sure about this guy? He's giving major control-freak vibes."

"I'm not sure about anything," Evelyn admitted, her eyes scanning the room. No sign of Damian yet. "But I need to know what he's not telling me."

Lila nodded, but her expression was grim. "Just… watch yourself, okay? These guys—Damian, Vincent—they're not normal. They play by different rules."

Before Evelyn could respond, her phone buzzed. A new email, no subject. Her heart sank as she opened it, Lila leaning over her shoulder. It was a video this time, grainy but clear enough: Evelyn leaving her hotel this morning, her face tense, her steps hurried. Overlaid on the footage, in that same red text, were the words: *Time's up.*

Lila gasped, but Evelyn's eyes snapped to the rooftop's edge, where a figure stood in the shadows, phone in hand, watching her. Not Damian. Not Vincent. Someone new, their face hidden, but their intent clear as day.

And then her phone rang, an unknown number flashing on the screen.