Chapter 1: House of Ghosts
Note: It's recommended you read the first two books in the series (Damian's Seduction and Ruthless Seduction), which can be found on my profile. They help give insight into the series' plot and events in this story.
“One step ahead.”
“Be one step ahead, Damian.”
He was eleven again, hunched over an ornate chessboard. His mother, Saira, sat across from him, regal and composed. Her slim fingers tapped a black rook.
He moved his knight, only for her to snatch it away. Her rook claimed the square.
“You failed.” Saira’s porcelain face showed no emotion as her words echoed in his heart.
The board dissolved into swirling black smoke, and a vortex opened at his feet.
Chloe appeared—her face smeared with blood, her mouth contorted in a silent scream. She reached for him, and he stretched his arms toward her. Their fingertips grazed, almost touching. She vanished in flames, funneling into an abyss, leaving him spinning, his heart drumming.
Damian jolted upright, gasping for air. He blinked, trying to ground himself in the now. Pale light filtered through his bedroom’s glass walls, revealing his estate’s modern luxury.
A single, crumpled sheet twisted around his legs, half the bedding on the floor. The faint scent of perfume lingered on a pillow—a reminder that someone else had warmed his bed last night. He couldn’t even remember her name. S, or maybe C.
It didn’t matter.
He shoved the sheet aside. His muscles tensed as he swung his legs over the edge of the mattress. He rubbed a hand over his face. Another meaningless encounter. Another morning that began with guilt and regret.
Seven months.
That was how long it had been since he buried her. The coroner delivered the report: the charred body with a missing fingertip. Seven months of nightmares.
I’m sorry, Chloe. I failed you.
Damian dragged himself to the window, ignoring the dull pain in his shoulders, to watch the sunrise over the garden. Immaculate lawns, a gleaming fountain. Beyond that, acres of woodland he once believed would be perfect for a big family.
If only...
He caught sight of his reflection in the glass: broad shoulders, sad eyes, the faint lines of exhaustion carved into his face. He had lost too much weight. He stared at the black-ink calligraphy curved over his left pectoral—a testament to Chloe’s Chinese name surrounded by delicate cherry blossoms close to his heart.
春华
Chun Hua. He shut his eyes.
Pain twisted his broken heart. She used to trace the characters with her fingertips, whispering, “You carry me with you, always.”
His temples pounded. Chloe would hate how he lived today. She’d stand, arms folded, that faint scowl pulling at her lips—“Why are you doing this to yourself, Dami?” But she wasn’t there. Only her memory, and that damned tattoo on his chest, reminding him how he failed her.
He swallowed hard. She was gone, and he’d let that warmth die with her. He bled for her. A lone tear ran down his left eye.
To touch her soft lips again.
To feel her in his arms. Oh, please, God! Just once more.
A muffled cry echoed down the corridor. Damian tensed. He knew that voice: Dawn, his two-year-old daughter, the only part of Chloe still breathing in this world.
He grabbed a discarded pair of sweatpants, tugged them on, and entered the hallway. The mansion’s minimalist décor felt more like a museum than a home. Chloe had once insisted on warmth—soft throws, scented candles—but now everything felt cold, sterile, and lifeless.
As he neared the living room, the cry sharpened into a wail, broken by hiccups and tiny gasps for air.
Mina, now eighteen and in her first year of college, sang to Dawn, who clung to her shirt. “Glad you took my offer to babysit for you?”
Damian forced a smile. “You’re a superhero.”
But his heart grieved crimson tears.
Dawn’s big brown eyes reminded him so much of Chloe—it hurt to look sometimes. He reached out, scooping the trembling toddler into his arms.
“I’ve got her,” he said.
Dawn’s fingers curled into his shirt. Her cheeks were warm and damp. “Da...da?” she managed through a hiccup.
He pressed a kiss to her temple. “Shh, princess,” he murmured. “Daddy’s here.”
Mina hovered for a moment. “Are you sure you’re okay? She’s been crying for a while.”
He nodded, though he wasn’t sure of anything. “I’ll handle it.”
She gave Dawn’s back a gentle pat, then stepped away. “Gotta catch the next bus. My psych lecture starts in an hour. Call me if you need me again.”
“Thanks, Mina. You’re a lifesaver.”
“You know, we all miss Chloe,” Mina said before leaving.
Dawn buried her face against Damian’s chest, her tiny body shaking with after-sobs. He rocked her, wincing at each hiccup. She was nearly two and motherless, clinging to a father who spent his nights trying to forget everything.
He wished he had Chloe’s tenderness for these moments. Chloe would sing lullabies or whisper silly stories until Dawn forgot her tears. Now, Dawn only had him—a hollow, fraying man.
Damian carried Dawn to the bright, open kitchen glistening with marble countertops and stainless steel appliances. He settled her on a high stool and kept a hand on her back while rummaging for cereal and milk. She sniffled, tears drying, though the heartbreak in her eyes lingered.
“You hungry?” he asked softly, opening the cupboard. “Or do you just want to hold on to Daddy?”
Dawn extended her arms, wiggling her fingers. “Up,” she demanded.
He sighed and lifted her again, letting her rest her head on his shoulder. Warmth radiated from her, reminding him not to give up.
She needed him. He put her in a booster seat and gave her a small bowl of cereal. She picked at the pieces before shoveling them into her mouth.
A subtle footstep approached.
Damian turned to see Vivianne, his PA, standing at the threshold. She held a tablet in one hand and scowled.
“Mister Scott,” she announced. “We have a situation.”
He stiffened. “What now?”
Vivianne’s gaze flicked to Dawn, then back at Damian. “It’s the tabloids. They’ve published photos of you leaving a club last night. Your father saw the coverage and asked me to share his disappointment in how this might affect SQ Enterprise’s reputation.”
Damian’s jaw clenched. Of all people, Alistair Scott should understand his own son’s pain, having once been a single dad. Yet, he believed in maintaining a pristine public image. “Disappointment” felt like an understatement.
Vivianne offered him the tablet.
Headlines blazed: Billionaire Damian Scott Caught Partying Again ... Moving On From Late Wife?
He skimmed the photos: him leaning against a bar with a glass of brandy, some nameless woman draping over his arm, his expression vacant. The pang of regret twisted again.
“Alistair wants a statement,” Vivianne continued. “He’s concerned about our brand image, given the development projects you front and the ongoing expansions at SQ Enterprise. The press frames this as you being irresponsible and easily forgetting Chloe.”
A bitter laugh escaped from his lips. “Forgetting her? They have no idea.”
Dawn stirred, her wide eyes glancing between him and Vivianne. “Dada?”
Damian inhaled, pressing a hand to the toddler’s back. “Tell my father I’ll handle it,” he assured. We can arrange damage control. Maybe highlight our charitable work to throw them off the scent.”
Vivianne nodded. “Understood. Your stepmother also called about the same coverage. She’s worried, too. Wants you to consider a more low-profile approach until the talk dies down.”
Damian’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I’ll talk to her.”
Vivianne glanced at Dawn, then back to Damian. “And... I’m sorry. About all of it.”
He waved her off. “Thanks, Vivianne.”
She slipped out, tucking the tablet under her arm. Damian ruffled his disheveled blond hair. He’d never cared about the paparazzi before. Now, even Alistair was unhappy, which stung more than he cared to admit.
And still, none of it changed the dark pit inside his heart where Chloe used to be.
Later, Damian took Dawn upstairs to her nursery—pastel walls, glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, plush toys scattered across the floor. Chloe had painstakingly decorated this room, insisting their child deserved to sleep among the stars every night. Now, it felt like a shrine to a future they’d never fully have.
He settled Dawn into her crib. She clutched a stuffed rabbit, eyelids already drooping again. The poor kid had spent half the morning sobbing. He smoothed her curls, his heart clenching at how fragile she looked.
“Shh,” he whispered. “Daddy loves you.”
Her eyes slipped closed, and he lingered, letting her soft breathing ground him: he had a reason to keep functioning and fighting.
After a hot shower, he changed into a fresh shirt and slacks in his bedroom, determined to salvage the day. The moment he tucked his phone into his pocket, it buzzed.
The caller ID read: Agent Sofia Hahn.
Apprehension spiked through him. She’d been the only one to question the coroner’s conclusion about Chloe’s death, insisting the evidence was inconclusive.
He braced himself and answered. “Damian Scott.”
“Listen, I have news,” she said, tense and urgent. “I’m not sure how to say this except plainly: there’s strong evidence the remains of the body we buried weren’t Chloe’s. She might still be alive.”
Damian’s heart stuttered. “Fuck. For real?”
“I followed your request,” Sofia said. “I urged them to triple-check. Test again and again. There’s a new coroner who admitted his former colleague may have made a mistake. The DNA results didn’t match Chloe’s.”
“Then whose body did I bury?”
“I’ll tell you later. For now, I’ve uncovered suspicious transactions tied to Mike Marino—large sums, shipping records, and references to a ‘private client’ in northern Europe. I believe Chloe was trafficked.”
A roar of blood filled Damian’s ears.
Mike fucking Marino.
The enemy who threatened to tear his world apart.
“Tell me everything,” he pressed.
Sofia exhaled. “I’m tracing documents and hush money, but it’s bigger than I thought. We have to be careful. If Marino realizes we suspect he faked her death, he might move Chloe again. I wanted you to know. But we need to do this quickly.”
A tremor rattled Damian’s hand.
Is Chloe alive?
She could be somewhere far away, enslaved or worse, while he spent his nights with strangers, letting tabloids call him heartless. His chest heaved with rage and shame.
“I’ll do whatever it takes,” he promised. “Resources, money—we must find her.”
“Understood,” Sofia said. “Let’s meet. We need a plan.”
He ended the call, pressing the phone to his chest. The bedroom swayed around him, or maybe it was just his pulse pounding in his skull.
Damian needed air. Striding onto the balcony, he braced his hands on the railing, inhaling the crisp breeze.
He closed his eyes.
Flashes of the nightmare still danced in his mind: his dead mother’s stern voice about being one step ahead, Chloe’s desperate face. He had to do better. He had to outmaneuver Marino and outwit every threat. If he were too late again, the guilt would destroy him forever.
His father’s concern about bad publicity felt trivial compared to the chance that Chloe was breathing somewhere, counting on him.
Damian’s heart thundered. He’d take on every law and border if it meant bringing her home.
One step ahead. This time, he wouldn’t fail.
The wind stirred, carrying the scent of the gardens below. He blinked, tears burning at the corners of his eyes. For seven months, he’d stumbled in a fog of misery, letting his life collapse.
Now, he had a purpose again—a mission.
Damian pushed away from the railing, his chest heaving with a new, ferocious determination. He steeled his spine, turned on his phone, and prepared to mobilize every trusted ally.
The illusions of “moving on” were dead.
The war for Chloe, his Helen of Troy, had just started.
A/N: Curious to know what happened to Chloe? And the night she disappeared? Let’s find out. :)
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