The Proposal

The rain had not stopped for three days.

From the window of her cramped apartment, Elara watched rivulets slide down the glass, slicing the city lights into fractured jewels. The storm matched her mood—unrelenting, merciless, heavy with something unsaid.

She had known the summons would come eventually. Men like him never forgot debts, and in her family’s case, the debt was written in blood and ink alike. Still, when the black car arrived below her building, gleaming despite the downpour, her pulse skittered like a bird too close to a predator.

“Elara,” the driver said with a bow that was more command than courtesy. “He is expecting you.”

He.

The word alone carried weight.

Lord Damian Veyra was more than a man—he was rumor, shadow, and steel. A name whispered in courts and alleys alike. The last heir of an old royal bloodline entwined with the criminal underworld, his empire was stitched together with both velvet and violence.

And tonight, he had asked—no, ordered—her presence.

Elara tugged her coat tighter and descended the narrow stairwell. Each step felt like a descent into inevitability.

The car smelled faintly of leather and smoke. No music, no partition between her and the driver. Just silence, broken only by the steady beat of rain on the roof.

She pressed her palms together in her lap, steadying her breath. Childhood lessons whispered back to her: Never let them see your fear. Weakness is invitation. Her father’s voice, once thunderous, echoed in her head. A father now buried beneath debts he could not pay, leaving her to shoulder the aftermath.

The city blurred past, skyscrapers giving way to older stone buildings, then to wrought-iron gates that opened at their arrival as though by unseen command.

Damian Veyra’s estate rose like a gothic cathedral against the storm. Towers, dark glass, arches etched with centuries of weather. Lightning illuminated it in a stark white flash, a fortress for a man who trusted no one.

The driver opened her door. Cold air rushed in, carrying the scent of rain-soaked roses and iron. Elara stepped out, her boots clicking on wet stone.

Inside, the mansion was even more imposing. Black marble floors reflected chandeliers heavy with crystal. Portraits of unsmiling ancestors lined the walls, their eyes following her with aristocratic disdain. Every shadow seemed to pulse with secrets.

He was waiting in the study.

The door opened silently, and there he was—Damian Veyra, in all his ruthless gravity.

He sat behind a carved oak desk, a glass of dark liquor in hand, untouched. The fire behind him threw long, hungry shadows across his features. Sharp jawline, eyes like polished obsidian, the faint scar tracing his temple to his cheek. He looked not at her, but through her.

“Elara.” His voice was smooth but edged like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath.

She dipped her chin, forcing steadiness. “My lord.”

His lips twitched, not quite a smile. “I am no one’s lord anymore. Titles are for those who still believe in crowns.”

“You still wear yours,” she said before she could stop herself, gaze flicking to the signet ring on his finger—ancient, heavy with legacy.

For a moment, silence stretched taut between them. Then, with deliberate grace, he set down the glass and leaned back in his chair.

“You know why you are here.”

Her throat tightened. “My family’s debt.”

“Your family’s ruin,” he corrected softly. “Your father gambled with men he could never best. He owed me more than he could ever pay.”

Her chest constricted. “Then take what you want. You already have the estate. The holdings. There is nothing left.”

His gaze sharpened, pinning her in place. “There is you.”

The words hung heavy, more binding than chains.

Elara’s breath caught. “What are you saying?”

He rose then, every inch of his height a calculated intimidation. He crossed the room with predatory stillness, stopping just close enough that she could smell his cologne—cedar, smoke, danger.

“Marry me,” he said simply.

The air seemed to collapse around her.

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