The Shadow Beside Him

Cleo moved fast—heels clicking against the marble floor as she raced into the elevator and slid in beside Damien before the doors could shut.

“Morning, Damie,” she cooed, batting her lashes like a deranged Disney villain. “Hope you don’t mind me tagging along.”

Damien didn’t answer. Not even a twitch.

The silence was his rejection, his armor.

But of course, Cleo was persistent.

She trailed after him like a shadow to his car, slipping into the passenger seat without being invited. Buckling her seatbelt with a sharp click, she turned toward him with a saccharine smile that barely masked her irritation.

“So…” she began, crossing her legs slowly. “Who is she really? That girl back there. Ariana or… whatever name she goes by. Is she someone you hired to get my attention?” Her voice was mocking, but behind it lurked something wounded.

Damien didn’t glance at her. His eyes stayed locked on the road, jaw tight.

“I’m not doing this with you, Cleo,” he muttered, flat and cold.

Her lips curled. “Oh come on, Damie. Don’t be so icy. You used to like when I talked your ear off.”

“You used to be tolerable,” he said, eyes still forward.

Cleo bristled. “So she’s got you wrapped around her finger, huh? You going to tell me she’s special?” She let out a laugh. “That’s rich.”

Damien’s hands tightened on the wheel, the car humming with rising speed. But still, she kept yapping—pressing, prodding, needling him with every word, desperate to get a reaction.

Then—he slammed the brakes.

The car screeched to a stop in the middle of an empty stretch of road.

Cleo’s body jerked against the seatbelt, startled. “What the hell—?”

“Get out,” he said, turning to her at last. His voice was sharp steel. “Now.”

Her lips parted. “You’re not serious.”

His face said otherwise.

She huffed, unbuckled the seatbelt but didn’t move. Instead, she leaned in—voice syrupy, eyes hooded.

“Is this about jealousy?” she murmured, fingers brushing lightly over his arm. “You still want me. I know you do. Maybe I just need to remind you.”

Her hand skimmed lower.

And then, without warning, Damien flung open her door.

“What are you—?!”

She didn’t finish the sentence.

He grabbed her wrist and tugged her out like she weighed nothing, setting her down on the pavement with military precision.

The door slammed shut.

She banged on the window as he shifted the gear.

“Damien, you arrogant prick! You can’t leave me here all by myself!”

His eyes flicked up to the mirror once—and then he stepped on the gas.

The engine roared as he sped off, Cleo’s voice trailing behind in the rearview.

“Damien Voss!”

**

The lobby of Voss Holdings smelled like polish and perfection.

Damien strode through the gleaming glass doors, face unreadable. Sharp suit, sharper eyes. The morning had left a bitter taste, and he was dangerously close to snapping.

“Finally,” Olivia said, rushing toward him with a tablet in hand and a crooked smile. “I was this close to sending a search team.”

She fell into step beside him, her tailored navy blazer flaring with each movement.

“Rough morning?” she asked with faux innocence. “Or should I say—rough Cleo?”

Damien glared at her sideways.

She grinned.

“So she’s back. Again. Is she like… a horror movie villain? Do we need holy water?”

He didn’t answer.

“Wait—don’t tell me HR actually authorized her transfer to the company. I knew there was something sketchy about that file,” she muttered, scrolling through her tablet. “And before you even ask, no—I wasn’t informed about the specialist coming in. If I had any clue it was her, I’d have nuked the paperwork myself.”

He stopped walking, jaw clenched. “I want her out, Olivia. Out of my house, and out of this company. As soon as possible.”

Olivia nodded solemnly. “Absolutely. I’m already working on a plan. Just… give me the rest of the week. Maybe a flame thrower.”

Damien resumed walking after they got off the elevator, and they reached his office wing.

“Your morning’s packed,” Olivia said briskly. “You’ve got that conference call with the Tokyo partners at eleven, a board meeting with Lyndon Tech by noon, and lunch with the mayor at two. Try not to murder anyone before then.”

“Noted,” Damien muttered, pushing open his office door.

Olivia turned, already typing something into her device. “I’ll handle the Cleo situation. Just focus on not setting fire to anything in the meantime.”

“Thank you,” he said, the door swinging shut behind him.

An hour later;

The meeting had barely begun when the door opened and in walked the storm.

Cleo.

Late. Drenched in smugness. Wrapped in a soft ivory blouse tucked into high-waisted navy slacks, she looked like sin tailored by Chanel.

“Apologies,” she said, breathless with a hint of dramatics, her eyes laser-locked on Damien. “I had a bit of a morning. A certain someone left me stranded on the high road. In heels.”

Several heads turned. A few chuckles rippled around the table.

One of the European execs leaned toward another and whispered, not too quietly, “Who the hell would abandon a woman like you on the road?”

“Maybe he’s blind,” the other murmured, eyes flicking to Cleo with an inviting smirk.

Damien’s jaw ticked. He didn’t even look at any of them.

“The meeting will continue,” he said sharply, dismissing the commentaries with a single sentence.

Cleo smiled to herself and sank into the nearest chair like she belonged there.

The room didn’t miss a beat. She said nothing more, only studied the dynamics carefully, eyes tracing charts, lips pressed together as though storing secrets.

Despite her interruption, the meeting ended smoothly. The partners stood once more, impressed.

“Voss Holdings is in capable hands,” the lead consultant said, extending a hand toward Damien. “And clearly…” His eyes slid briefly to Cleo. “You surround yourself with very intriguing people.”

Damien nodded once. “Thank you.”

But Cleo had already drifted to his side like a ghost in satin, smiling at the executives like she was the First Lady of the empire.

She remained close as he walked out of the conference room, posture perfect, chin lifted.

In the corridor, she kept pace.

“Stranded,” she muttered under her breath. “Left on the side of the road like a broken suitcase. What if I was kidnapped? What if some creep followed me?”

Damien didn’t answer. His steps were swift, unbothered. Ice in motion.

“Some deranged man splashed water all over me. I had to get new outfits from a boutique on my way here. How are you going to make up for that?”

Still no answer from Damien. He continued walking, taking long strides towards his office like she doesn’t exist.

“You’re really going to pretend that was okay?” she hissed. “That you didn’t throw me out of your car like I was trash?”

He reached his office door.

“I could’ve been killed.”

And just as she stepped forward—he entered and slammed the door without warning.

Her face smacked the polished wood with a quiet thud. She recoiled, lips parted in shock, hand flying to her cheek.

Inside, Damien exhaled slowly, jaw clenched.

He didn’t care what games she wanted to play.

She wasn’t going to win.

**

An hour later, the sleek black Voss town car pulled up in front of a glass-walled bistro downtown. The mayor’s office had requested the lunch months ago—strategic partnership talk, press coverage, the usual political theater.

Damien adjusted his cufflinks as the driver parked. He stepped out smoothly into the sunlight—

—and froze.

Across the street, a man stood near the corner, shoulders hunched in desperation, holding a poster above the heads of the crowd.

A bright flyer. With bold letters. And a photo.

A close-up of her face.

Isabella.

The caption beneath it read:

“My girlfriend is missing. Please help me find her.”

Damien’s stomach dropped. Blood drained from his face.

The flyer flapped in the breeze, taunting him.

He blinked, heart pounding.

And then—

The man holding the poster looked up.

Locked eyes with Damien.

And started walking toward him.