When the last squad car pulls off, the house seems to exhale with relief. Damien doesn’t. He takes me upstairs without a word. Past the wrecked mirror room. Past staff sweeping glass from carpet and scrubbing blood from the ballroom floor.
“Inside,” he says when we arrive at the door to my suite.
I step in. He follows, checking the windows, the locks, every room and closet like he’s clearing a scene.
“You don’t leave this suite,” he tells me. “You don’t open this door for anyone but me or Alex. Guard stays outside. If you need something, you call.” His eyes land on my bandage. “Get some sleep. That’s an order.”
“I’m not a prisoner,” I reply.
“No, but you’re under my protection now,” he answers.
It doesn’t feel any different. It still feels like I’m trapped. I want to argue, but I nod instead, because my arm hurts and my brain knows this isn’t over.
He brushes the ribbon at my wrist, a quick touch, then leaves. I lock the door. Footsteps settle in the hall—the guard. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly.
My phone blinks with a missed call from the hospital. The world tilts. I hit redial with unsteady hands. It rings once.
“Ms. Hewitt? This is the ICU at Mount Sinai.”
I taste metal. “Clara?”
“She’s stable now,” the nurse says. “The surgery was successful, but shortly after they closed her up, her rhythm crashed and she flatlined. They resuscitated her quickly and moved her to the ICU. We’re keeping her sedated while we run tests.”
“Flatlined,” I repeat.
“We got her back,” the nurse says. “She’s here. Vitals are fragile but holding. The team is with her.”
“Can I see her?”
“Not tonight,” she says gently. “Let the doctors finish. You can come in the morning.”
I hang up and stare at my hand. It’s shaking. The ribbon looks stupid and brave at the same time. I want to run. I want to break down the door. I want Damien, and yet I don’t.
I press my palm to my bandage and remind myself to breathe.
CHAPTER 18
DAMIEN
It’s late morning, the day after the party.
The city is cold and bright. I’m in my office in Midtown, seated at the head of the large granite conference room table. Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve, so the offices are mostly empty.
Rage swirls inside me. The thought of Cassandra being shot, coming so close to… I don’t even want to think about it.
Two armed men are stationed outside the doorway of the office suite, with a handful of others scattered within, Orlov just outside Damien’s office. Bennett sits at her desk, phone in hand.
The elevator chimes. Cassandra comes in carrying two cups of coffee. Her blouse sleeve is rolled to spare the bandage. The wrap is clean and tight. A fresh red ribbon is at her other wrist, hidden beneath the sleeve. Her eyes sweep the room without making a show of it.
The shock from last night does not show in her face.
I told her she will act as my PA—that’s the cover. It’s believable, and my men are aware. It allows her to stay within reach and within my line of sight.
She sets my coffee down. No words, no fuss. Precision.
“You’ll stay with me today,” I tell her. “All day.”
She nods. Obedience with edge. She is not a doe. She is a line of steel that learned to bend.
