Chapter 5
The sickly-sweet stench of synthetic vanilla hung in the corridor of the east wing like a toxic fog. I stopped dead in the doorway of Damian’s study. The heavy mahogany desk had been disturbed; the bottom drawer was pushed shut, but a fraction of an inch of brass track gleamed in the dim light.
"She was here," I whispered, the adrenaline from our server heist spiking all over again.
Damian stepped up behind me, his broad chest a solid wall against my back. He didn't slouch. He didn't tremble. He simply reached around me and pulled the drawer open. The false bottom was exposed. The leather-bound ledger we had left there—a carefully crafted decoy filled with cryptic, mildly incriminating financial transfers—was gone.
"Maci," I breathed, my nails biting into my palms. "She took it straight to Ridge."
"Exactly as planned," Damian murmured, the deep timbre of his voice vibrating against my spine. "Ridge is arrogant, but he’s desperate. That ledger gives him just enough rope to think he’s uncovered a petty embezzlement scheme. He won’t handle it quietly. He’ll want a public execution."
"The Charity Gala," I realized, turning to face him. "Tomorrow night."
"He’ll try to bury us in front of the entire city," Damian said, his dark eyes locking onto mine with a lethal, predatory gleam. "And instead, he’ll dig his own grave."
The sheer magnitude of what we were about to do crashed over me. The server data, securely downloaded onto an encrypted drive, now sat heavy in Damian’s pocket. The war was peaking. Outside, a sudden torrential downpour began to lash against the towering windows, mirroring the violent storm brewing in my chest.
I walked into our bedroom, my hands shaking as I unbuttoned my crimson blazer. My thumb instinctively sought out my bare left ring finger, rubbing the phantom ache of my past humiliation.
Before I could complete the nervous circuit, Damian’s large, warm hand enveloped mine. His grip was firm, entirely steady.
"Stop," he commanded softly.
I looked up. The mask was completely gone. In the low amber glow of the bedside lamp, there was no trace of the broken fool. There was only a man who had spent two decades in the dark, looking at me as if I were the first source of light he’d ever seen.
"I’m not afraid of tomorrow," I said, my voice barely a whisper, yet echoing loudly in the quiet room. "I’m afraid of what happens when the ashes settle. When there’s no more revenge to keep us tied together."
Damian’s jaw tightened. He raised his free hand, his knuckles grazing the curve of my cheek. The touch sent a shockwave of heat straight to my core. "Do you think vengeance is the only thing binding me to you, Sophia?"
"We started as a transaction," I challenged, though my breath hitched as his thumb traced my lower lip.
"We started as survivors," he corrected, his gaze dropping to my mouth. "I spent twenty-two years pretending to be a ghost. You are the only person who sees the man beneath the shroud. I don't want to be a ghost anymore."
The last thread of my armor snapped. I didn't wait for him to close the distance. I pulled him down by the lapels of his shirt, my mouth crashing against his. There was nothing calculated about the kiss. It was a desperate, consuming collision of two people who had been starved of truth. His hands, usually forced into a trembling pantomime, were masterful and demanding as they swept down my spine, pulling me flush against his hard frame. We shed our clothes like we were shedding our pasts, leaving the remnants of our betrayals in a tangled heap on the floor. That night, the marriage of convenience burned away, leaving behind something terrifyingly real, forged in the fires of our shared ruin.
By three o'clock the next afternoon, the rain had cleared, leaving the city sky a bruised, unforgiving purple. We stood in the humid, earth-scented air of Eleanor Scott’s private botanical conservatory.
The elderly matriarch sat in a high-backed rattan chair, her silver cane resting against her knees. She watched us approach, her cloudy eyes narrowing as Damian walked toward her with the fluid, commanding stride of a king claiming his throne.
He didn't say a word. He simply placed a sleek tablet onto the glass table between the orchids.
Eleanor picked up her reading glasses. For a long, suffocating minute, the only sound was the hum of the climate control as she swiped through the decrypted server files. The offshore routing numbers. The exorbitant payout to a known fixer. Beatrice’s digital signature authorizing the hit on Damian’s mother.
Eleanor’s hands began to shake, but her spine went rigid with aristocratic fury. The color drained from her powdered face, replaced by a cold, archaic wrath.
"She poisoned the roots of this family," Eleanor rasped, dropping the tablet as if it were coated in acid. She looked up at Damian, her eyes shining with a mixture of profound grief and fierce recognition. "You have your mother’s eyes. And your father’s ruthless mind."
"I don't want the empire for the sake of power, Aunt Eleanor," Damian said, his baritone voice echoing with absolute authority. "I want to excise the rot."
Eleanor gripped her cane, her knuckles white. She looked at me, then back to Damian. "Ridge thinks he is springing a trap tonight at the Gala. Let him open the jaws." She struck the tip of her cane against the stone floor, the sound cracking like a gunshot. "When the time comes, Damian, I will stand before the board and the press. I will back your claim. We will tear Beatrice and her bastard son down from the inside out."
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