Chapter Four: Worst Nightmare

Narrator pov

Somewhere in the City – A Small Bar

The dim yellow lights flickered against the cracked walls of a dingy bar. At the far corner, a man lounged with careless arrogance, his chair tipped back, a glass of whiskey sweating on the table. His phone screen glowed in the low light, and a slow, wicked chuckle rolled from his throat. Heads turned. He didn’t care.

He looked like a man who had just found something dangerous—something worth burning the world for.

“Damien’s worst nightmare is back,” Allen murmured, the corners of his lips curling as if savoring the words.

Across from him, his assistant Reo slipped into the seat, eyes wary. Allen’s chuckle swelled into laughter, dark and unrestrained.

"Reo," Allen said, not looking up as his assistant materialized from the shadows. "Look at her. Five years in the wild, and she returns not as a beggar, but as a queen ready to reclaim her throne. A throne she thinks my brother stole. It’s like heaven itself is playing on my side.”

Reo tilted his head, waiting.

"Damien's been searching for a ghost," Allen chuckled, the sound devoid of warmth. "But he wasn't prepared for a vengeance demon. I almost want to thank her. She's doing the messy work of breaking his spirit for me."

He finally looked at Reo, his eyes glinting. "But an amateur needs a director. Arrange a meeting. Let's offer our... consulting services."

Reo nodded, already pulling out his phone. Allen leaned back and raised his whiskey glass, the amber liquid swirling like molten gold.

“How do you think it feels, Reo? When every secret you thought was buried claws its way back? When the empire you’ve built begins to crumble piece by piece right before your eyes?” He smirked, voice dropping to a whisper. “It’s a slow fall. Gentle… gentle… until the ground comes rushing up. Tell me, how will Damien feel when everything he protects burns?”

Reo’s phone snapped shut. Silence.

“She agreed, right?” Allen asked, leaning forward eagerly. “She has to. No one can help her more than I can.”

Reo’s gaze faltered. “Sir… she declined.”

Allen froze mid-sip. His brow twitched. “What?”

"She said her war with Damien is a 'family matter'. She called you an outsider.

Allen’s smirk faltered. His voice turned low, dangerous. “Outsiders? Did you even tell her who I am?”

“I did. She knows it’s you,” Reo admitted carefully. Infact, her exact words were, 'Tell him to stay in his lane. If he interferes, he'll find himself in the crosshairs alongside my ex-husband.'

The glass hit the table with a violent thud.

“Did she really say that?” His tone was ice.

“Yes, sir.”

Allen’s jaw worked, muscles twitching. His hand tightened around the glass like he could crush it to dust.

“She thinks she can shut me out?” His whisper was a vow. “She thinks she can walk away like I’m nothing? Let’s see how long that lasts.”

Reo raised his brows. “Sir—”

“Stop talking,” Allen snapped, eyes flashing. “Get out.”

Reo gave a faint smirk, not particularly threatened. “Sir, we’re in a bar. If you want me gone, you’ll have to walk yourself home tonight.”

“Reo…” Allen’s voice was razor-sharp. “Don’t push your luck.”

The assistant lifted his hands in surrender and stood. “Fine. No need for empty threats. I’m gone.”

Allen didn’t watch him leave. He stared into his drink, the ice melting, his reflection warping in the golden swirl.

“Evelyn…” he whispered, venom threading her name. “Do you even know who you’re provoking? You think you’re untouchable just because Damien’s in your sights? You think you can play this game without me?”

The dim light caught the edge of his smirk again—but it wasn’t playful anymore. It was sharper. Hungrier.

Five years ago, she had walked away. Thought she was free. That was her mistake. Now she was back in the game, and Allen wasn’t about to let her escape this time.

His fingers tapped a slow rhythm against the table. His mind raced. People like Evelyn always had something to lose. And Allen? Allen had a talent for finding it.

He drained the last of his whiskey and rose to his feet.

“If not for that Damien you hate so much, you wouldn’t have slipped from me back then,” he muttered. “But now? Now I love this side of you. It makes the game sweeter.”

A cold laugh slipped from his lips.

Allen snapped, turning around. "She wants a fierce revenge battle? I'll show her fierce. If she won't be my ally, she'll be my pawn. And when Damien is broken and she has nothing left, she'll understand who truly holds the power."

“Seems five years ago wasn’t enough for you to learn who to work with,” he muttered to himself. “Guess you’re bound to repeat your mistakes. And this time… I’ll make it easier. Because going down with him?” His smirk deepened. “That’s going to be fun.”

“Brother…” His voice dropped, like he was speaking to someone who wasn’t there. “If the choice came again, would you still give everything up for love? Wouldn’t it be fun if I borrowed that love you bled for five years ago—used it as my weapon? I’ll return her when I’m done. If there’s anything left to return.”

"Game on, Evelyn," he murmured. "Let's see how long you can fight a war on two fronts."

---

Blackthorne Mansion

Damien leaned back in his leather chair, the weight of his mahogany desk between him and the woman who had come back to set his world on fire. The contract lay open in front of him, his own signature mocking him in fresh ink.

He had skimmed it at the party. Enough to think he understood. Not enough to catch Clause 13.

His jaw locked as his eyes dragged over the words again.

She can bring men into the house at any time. He has no right to oppose.

This was his mansion. His domain. How was he supposed to sit and watch strangers waltz into his home, into his life, into her orbit—while he said nothing?

The folder snapped shut with a violent crack.

“About the company, the properties, even this house,” Damien said, his voice calm but edged with steel. “Fine. You can have them. Hell, I could even add myself to the list if it would satisfy you.”

His eyes burned into hers.

“But Clause 13—”

Evelyn cut him off with a scoff. “And what about Clause 13?” She leaned against his desk, every inch the queen in her castle. “I can’t bring men into your house? Is that the issue?” Her smirk curled cruel. “Oh… don’t tell me. You’re jealous?”

Damien’s gaze didn’t flinch. “Can’t I be?”

That halted her for a second. Just a second.

She circled the desk slowly, heels sharp against the polished floor, perfume clouding the air. Without warning, she straddled his lap, facing him, her eyes glinting.

“Would you like to hear a story?” she whispered.

His hands clenched against the armrests. “Go on.”

“It’s about a woman named Evie,” she murmured, her lips brushing his ear. “She married a man she loved. Trusted him. Believed in him. But one day, her husband betrayed her. Broke her. Left her with nothing. So she ran.”

Her tone softened, but each word cut like glass.

“For five years, she sold herself to survive. Different men, different nights. Sometimes for money. Sometimes just to not feel like the beggar again. What do you think of her now, Damien?”

Her lips grazed his jaw, poison wrapped in silk.

“Disgusting, right?”

Damien’s gaze didn’t move. His voice was quiet, steady. “Is that what you want me to think of you?”

For a flicker, her smirk faltered. But she recovered fast. “Does it matter? You already decided what I was the day I left.”

“No.” His voice deepened. “That’s what you decided for me.”

The words landed heavy, rippling the air between them.

Evelyn forced a laugh, sliding off his lap and smoothing her skirt. “Save your speeches. We both know the truth.”

He watched her in silence. His voice barely carried, but the weight was undeniable. “If you really knew the truth, Evie… you wouldn’t be here trying to hurt me. You’d be somewhere safe. And I’d still be the one protecting you… without you even knowing.”

She froze, but only for a breath. “Clause 13 is non-negotiable. As long as this mansion is mine. Or have you forgotten the terms you so eagerly signed?" She muttered.

His gaze steady, but a muscle ticks in his jaw. "I've forgotten nothing. Especially not the woman I married. She wouldn't use herself as a weapon so carelessly. Tell me, Evelyn, what happened to the woman who believed in 'us'?"

"She died. Thanks to you. And this clause is her ghost, here to haunt you. Get used to the noise." Evelyn muttered, turning to leave, but Damien's voice stops her, quiet but absolute.

"Bring whoever you want. But know this. Every man who walks through that door will be reminded that he is a guest in our home. And that you are still my wife. In my heart, and in the eyes of every law that matters." Damien said leaning back.

Narrator pov

Evelyn woke up in her own room, because of course she didn’t sleep in Damien’s. Sharing a bed with that man? She’d rather hug a cactus.

She stretched lazily, slipped into her robe, and headed downstairs. By the time she reached the kitchen, the air was already alive with the sounds of clinking pans and murmuring maids.

Mrs. Davies, the head maid, was giving her usual morning sermon to a nervous junior.

“Remember, no salt. Mr. Damien prefers to season his food himself. The eggs soft, the toast lightly done, the coffee black—”

Evelyn leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, eyes glinting. Breakfast without salt? How boring.

Evelyn leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, an amused smile tugging at her lips. “My, my. You all know his taste buds better than his wife does.”

The maids froze. Mrs. Davies turned slowly, eyes widening when she saw Evelyn.

“I’ll be handling breakfast today,” Evelyn announced, stepping forward like a queen claiming her throne.

The maids exchanged nervous glances. Mrs. Davies cleared her throat. “Madam, perhaps it’s better if—”

Evelyn cut her off with a tilt of her head and a sugar-coated smile. “Is there a problem with me wanting to serve my husband myself?”

Silence. No one dared breathe. Evelyn clapped her hands lightly. “Good. Out.”

One by one, the maids scurried out, their shoes clicking against the marble. The kitchen door shut behind them, leaving Evelyn in a kingdom of gleaming silverware and the aroma of fresh bread.

She rolled up her sleeves. “Let’s make this breakfast unforgettable.”

The eggs were soft and golden, the toast perfect, the coffee strong. But as she prepared the plate for Damien, her eyes narrowed. She reached for the salt shaker and twisted, emptying more than a “pinch” over the eggs. Then another heavy shake. Then another. She sprinkled extra on the potatoes, stirred it into the sauce, even dusted the toast with a fine layer.

Her plate, however, remained untouched. Perfectly balanced.

When she was done, she stood back and admired her work. The breakfast looked like a magazine cover. No one would ever know it was a sodium bomb waiting to detonate.

Satisfied, she set the tray and made her way upstairs. She left the kitchen humming something mean and walked to the study.

----

Damien looked up, pen in hand, eyes cutting through her like he was already reading motives in bold print. A flicker of surprise crossed his face before he buried it.

“You’re up early.” His tone was flat, but the edge was there. Neutral never survived long between them.

“I made breakfast,” Evelyn said, smiling just enough to sting. “Thought you might like to eat with me.”

That caught him. Not pleasure. Not annoyance. Caution.

“You want me to eat with you?”

“Yes.” Her hands folded neatly, calm as porcelain.

He hesitated, then rose, following her as if he had a choice. That tiny surrender tasted like victory—for two seconds.

The dining room gleamed, sunlight striping the table. Staff bowed and vanished. Evelyn slid into her seat opposite him, chin propped on her hand, a cat waiting for its prey.

She served him herself, easing the plate in front of him. “I hope you enjoy it, darling. I worked very hard.”

His eyes stayed on her, cool and steady. Then he asked, voice low, not quite joking:

“Are you trying to poison me?”

The words dropped like a stone.

Evelyn blinked. Then laughed, soft and sharp. “No. I wouldn’t poison you.”

“Why not?”

She leaned forward, her whisper slicing the air. “Because poison is too fast. I want you to die slowly. I want everything you’ve built to rot piece by piece. I want your victories to taste like ash. That’s the kind of death you deserve.”

He studied her as if she’d just commented on the weather. Calm. Detached. Dangerous. Then he picked up his fork, cut into the eggs, and ate.

Evelyn leaned forward, waiting for the cough, the grimace, the desperate reach for water.

Nothing.

Another bite. And another. He finished every salted scrap on the plate, his face a mask of composure. Only the faintest flicker in his eyes at the first bite betrayed him—and even that vanished before she could be sure.

He dabbed his mouth, set down the napkin. “Thank you for breakfast. It was… memorable.”

It might as well have been a slap. She felt it across her face.

“You ate it,” she said. The words came out sharper than she intended. “You didn’t—react.”

He smiled then, and it was almost kind. “I asked if you poisoned me. You said no. You said you wanted slow undoing. Very medieval of you.” He paused. “I appreciate creativity.”

The heat in her chest took a new shape. It wasn’t fury now. It was the cold of small failure. Petty revenge hadn’t even shaken him. He took her petty lashing like a man used to storms.

He rose, slid into his jacket, and left without looking back.

Evelyn sat frozen, nails biting her palm. Petty games weren’t enough. If Damien could swallow this and walk away untouched, then she’d need to carve deeper. Break him from the inside. Like if Damien could swallow a declaration of war and call it breakfast, then she would need a weapon he couldn't digest.

Her lips curved into a cold, flawless smile. Fine, she thought. If you're immune to poison, I'll make you fall in love with the antidote. Then I'll take it away.

Her lips curved. “Fine. Let’s play harder.”

She rose from the table, her voice a whisper that promised a storm. "Salt was too simple. Let's see how you handle a diet of pure, unfiltered love, Damien. I'll make sure it's the last thing you ever taste."

Congratulations, Damien," she whispered to herself walking upstairs. "You just graduated from target to prey. The hunt begins now."