Chapter 5: Scars and Secrets

Chapter 5: Scars and Secrets

The threatening note had poisoned the air in the penthouse. The brief, fragile warmth of their shared laugh was a distant memory, obliterated by the cold reality of Marcus Thorne’s malice. Damian had retreated so far into himself that he was more statue than man, a figure of chilling stillness who spent his hours staring at encrypted data streams on his tablet, his jaw perpetually set in a hard, unforgiving line.

Elara found herself watching his hands. They were elegant, powerful hands, capable of signing billion-dollar deals or, as she now knew, of terrifying unseen minions into action. But her focus kept returning to his right hand, to the faint, silvery web of scars that marred the perfection of his knuckles. She’d noticed it before—when he’d clenched his fist in her ruined apartment, when he’d gently tended to her face—but now, in the shadow of Thorne’s threat, the scar seemed like a key to a door he kept permanently locked.

She found her opportunity that evening. He was in his office, a starkly modern room of glass and black leather, working late. A single desk lamp cast a pool of intense light over a stack of documents he was reviewing. His right hand rested on the desk, the scar tissue pale and stark under the direct light.

She entered with a tray bearing a cup of the strong, black coffee he favored and a glass of water for herself. It was an excuse, a breach of the silent perimeter he had erected around himself. He didn't look up as she set the tray down.

“Thank you, Elara.” His voice was clipped, dismissive.

She didn't leave. She stood there, her heart a nervous drum against her ribs. “Mr. Blackwood?”

He finally lifted his head, his dark eyes impatient. “What is it?”

Her courage almost failed her. She gestured tentatively towards his hand. “I was just wondering… what happened there?”

His gaze followed hers down to his knuckles. For a split second, his expression shifted. A flicker of something ancient and violent passed through his eyes before the mask of indifference slammed back down. He instinctively pulled his hand back, curling it into a loose fist as if to hide the evidence.

“An old disagreement,” he said, his voice flat and cold, a clear dismissal. “It’s nothing.”

But it wasn't nothing. The way he’d flinched, the way his entire body had tensed—it was a glimpse into a past that didn't involve boardrooms or designer suits. It was a past of blood and bone and brutal settlements. He was deflecting, pushing her away, but the act of her asking, of noticing a piece of him that was broken and healed over, had subtly altered the space between them. She had seen past the billionaire, and he knew it. A new, dangerous intimacy, born of a shared secret he hadn't even shared, settled in the room.

Before she could retreat, his private phone buzzed on the desk—a low, insistent sound reserved for a single contact. Kaito.

He snatched it up, his focus shifting entirely. “Report.”

Elara stood frozen, an unwilling audience to the machinations of his dark world.

“We have confirmation, sir,” a disembodied voice, professional and devoid of emotion, crackled from the phone. “The messenger was… cooperative. He talked before we even had to get creative.”

Damian’s knuckles went white where he gripped the phone. “The money?”

“A convoluted trail, as expected. Shell corporations, offshore accounts. But we unraveled it. The final payment originated from a slush fund directly controlled by Thorne Industries’ executive board. It’s Thorne’s signature, sir. Arm’s length, but his fingerprints are all over it.”

Elara watched as a cold, terrible certainty settled over Damian’s features. His suspicion was now fact. This was Thorne.

“There’s more,” Kaito’s voice continued. “The instructions weren’t just to rob her. They were specific. To cause 'maximum distress with minimal permanent damage.' To make it look random, but to make sure she was marked. Humiliated. It was designed to be psychological.”

Sadistic. Theatrical. The words Damian himself had used echoed in the silent office.

“And one final thing, sir,” Kaito added, a slight hesitation in his voice. “When we ran Thorne’s name through the deep archives, we found a cross-reference. From the old district records. East End. St. Jude’s Home for Boys.”

The air crackled. St. Jude’s. The name landed like a physical blow. Elara saw Damian stagger, a barely perceptible rocking motion, as if he’d been struck.

“He was there for two years,” Kaito finished. “Same time you were.”

Damian was silent for a long, terrifying moment. He was no longer looking at his papers or out the window. His gaze was turned inward, seeing ghosts from a past he had tried to bury under a mountain of wealth. St. Jude’s. It wasn’t a home; it was a crucible, a brutal, unforgiving place where the strong preyed on the weak and survival was a daily, bloody battle. A place where a boy learned that the only way to never be a victim was to become a predator.

And Marcus Thorne had been there with him.

In an instant, everything clicked into place with horrifying clarity. The rivalry wasn’t about the Sato acquisition or market shares. It was older, uglier, rooted in the filth of their shared childhood. He remembered Marcus now—a boy with cruel eyes who never fought the strongest kid in the yard. Instead, he’d find what that kid cared about—a stray dog they fed, a younger boy they protected—and he would break it, just to watch the other’s spirit crumble. It was his signature then, and it was his signature now.

Thorne wasn’t trying to distract him. He wasn't trying to gain a business advantage.

He was trying to break him.

He had looked at Damian Blackwood, the untouchable titan of industry, and searched for a weakness. And in the sterile lobby of Blackwood Tower, he must have seen it. A shared glance. A brief, genuine smile from Elara. The way Damian’s gaze would soften for a fraction of a second when she entered a room. Thorne had seen the one thing Damian hadn’t even fully admitted to himself: that this bright, resilient woman was becoming more than an assistant. She was becoming something he cared about.

She was the stray dog in the yard.

A rage unlike anything he had felt before, cold and absolute, washed through him. It was the rage of a king whose fortress had been breached, not by an army, but by a single, poisoned arrow aimed at its heart. Thorne hadn’t just attacked his assistant. He had reached into Damian’s soul and found the one, single nerve he had left exposed to the world.

“Thank you, Kaito. Stay on him,” Damian said, his voice a dead, calm whisper. He ended the call.

He slowly stood up, the full, terrifying force of his realization settling over him. He looked at Elara, who was watching him with wide, frightened eyes. She had no idea. She saw a corporate rival, a dangerous man. She didn’t see the cruel boy from St. Jude’s, a sadist who had honed his craft in the shadows of a forgotten hell.

He now understood the game. Thorne didn’t want to beat him in the boardroom; he wanted to watch him burn. And he would keep coming for Elara, again and again, each time more vicious than the last, until Damian was broken.

Unless Damian changed the rules.

A plan, brutal and decisive, formed in his mind. Thorne wanted a spectacle. He wanted to watch. Then Damian would give him something to look at.

“Elara,” he said, his voice level, betraying none of the apocalyptic fury churning within him. “Go and get some rest.”

She nodded, clearly relieved to be dismissed, and turned to leave.

“And Elara,” he added, stopping her at the door. She looked back, a question in her eyes.

His face was a mask of cold, dangerous resolve. “Clear your schedule for Saturday night. We’re attending the Starlight Foundation Gala.”