Chapter 6: 6. Ghosts We Feed
Elara hadn’t planned to return to her childhood home so soon. The city had changed, towering ads and sharp glass buildings eating up the sky, but her old neighborhood looked the same.
Faded paint. Weeds breaking through sidewalk cracks. A familiar ache in her chest.
This wasn’t nostalgia.
It was unfinished business.
She walked up the steps to the Vance family brownstone and knocked. The door opened to reveal Luca, her younger brother, wearing a wrinkled shirt and headphones slung around his neck.
"El?" he said, startled.
"It’s me," she said, forcing a smile.
He hesitated. "You shouldn’t be here.
"I needed to see you. Is Mom home?"
He shook his head. "She’s out with her club friends. Pretending we still have money."
Elara stepped inside. The air smelled like old books and lemon cleaner, an attempt to preserve dignity.
"You look... different," Luca said, watching her. "Like someone playing dress-up."
"Guess that’s what happens when you marry the devil," she muttered.
He flinched. "Damien?"
"Yeah."
"You hate him?"
Elara opened her mouth, then closed it.
"I should," she said finally. "But it’s more complicated than that."
They sat in the kitchen, drinking instant coffee. Elara reached into her purse and pulled out an envelope.
"What’s this?" Luca asked.
"Money. Enough for rent and school. You should finish your degree."
He frowned. "We don’t need Arclight’s charity."
"It’s not charity," she snapped. "It’s survival. I didn’t marry him for love, Luca, I did it to keep you and Mom afloat."
"I never asked you to do that."
"No, but I did it anyway. So don’t make this harder."
He stared at the envelope, jaw tight. "Is this really worth it, Elara? Selling yourself to him?"
"I’m not sold," she said quietly. "I’m just... leased. For now."
Back at the penthouse, Elara stepped out of the elevator to find Damien pacing.
"Where were you?" he asked.
"I visited my family. Or is that not allowed in the contract?"
He stared at her. "The media’s asking questions. There’s a rumor circulating that your marriage is a cover for,"
"An affair?" she offered. "Or maybe a murder plot?"
"Pregnancy."
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
"A columnist wrote that your sudden marriage implies a pregnancy scandal." He tossed a tablet onto the table. The headline blared in bold:
"Shotgun Wedding? Heiress Elara Vance Sparks Speculation"
Her stomach turned.
"I’m handling it," Damien added. "But you need to be careful. One misstep, and the board starts sniffing blood."
She looked at him, exhaustion dragging at her shoulders. "Is this what our life is now? A chessboard of lies?"
He softened, just a flicker. "It always was. We just stopped pretending."
That night, Elara couldn’t sleep.
She found herself in the penthouse’s study, thumbing through old business journals Damien kept. One was bookmarked.
Inside, a photo fell out, two boys, maybe twelve years old, standing on a dock. One was Damien. The other had the same sharp eyes but a wild grin.
She flipped it over. In faded ink: D & J Summer before everything changed.
J? Julian?
She tucked the photo back in. Another ghost, another thread.
Whatever history Damien
had buried, she’d find it.
Because power wasn’t just about surviving.
It was about knowing everything.