The moment Damian tells me to prepare myself, the air inside the penthouse shifts. My heartbeat stumbles. My hand tightens around the phone until my fingers start to ache.
“Damian,” I breathe. “What happened? Tell me.”
There is a pause on the other end. Not long, but heavy. A pause that feels like someone setting down a weight they know will crush the floor when it lands.
His voice comes through low, controlled in a way that tells me the truth is much worse than he wants to admit.
“We entered the hotel room,” he says slowly. “It was empty. No sign of anyone inside. But Elena… the room was filled with photos.”
My stomach knots. “Photos of what?”
He exhales, the kind of breath people take before saying something irreversible. I can almost hear the dread shaping the silence between us.
