Damian stepped forward. Jaw tight. Muscles coiled under skin. His face gave nothing away, but the silence between them crackled. It thrummed through me, firing every nerve.
I pushed myself off the couch. “I was just leaving,” I said, voice unsteady. “Mr. Miller… thank you for being in the right place at the right time.”
He nodded once, eyes fixed on Dominic. I walked fast to the elevators, trying to steady my breath. The back of my neck burned as if his gaze followed me.
“Miss Elfhorn.”
I stopped and turned.
“Come to my office,” he said. Calm. Final.
For a second, I thought of refusing. Then I sighed and followed him until the door clicked shut. The music and chatter below clipped away with that soft click.
The room was dim. A massive mahogany desk dominated the space. Behind it hung a shadowed painting of Charon, ferryman of the dead, pale figures reaching from the dark like lost things. The air pressed against me, heavy and close.
Damian leaned on the desk’s edge, watching. I stayed near the door, as if it might still open.
“First,” he said, “welcome to my club.”
“Thank you.”
“And second—what were you thinking, going into a private lounge with Dominic Santares in your state?”
“I wasn’t thinking.” I swallowed. “He offered fresh air and water.”
“Did he touch you?”
“He pushed me onto the couch… and then you came in.” The words came out small.
Damian’s mouth flattened. The pause after his breath felt long, like he was weighing whether to return downstairs and finish what Dominic had started.
“Did you know this was my club?”
“No.”
“And how did you get in?”
“My friend Jenn knows someone who let us in.” I lied. I wouldn’t give Ference away.
A flicker of a smile ghosted his lips—quick, unreadable. “I’m surprised to see you in a place like this.”
I raised a brow. “Why would that surprise you?”
“You strike me as someone who prefers books and antiques to late nights in New York clubs.”
“Maybe.” I forced my eyes to meet his. “But even I need a break sometimes.”
“I understand. Still… here?”
“What makes this different from the others?”
“This club,” he said, “is a crossroads for the elite. Deals. Alliances. Almost everyone here holds power. Someone like you should be careful.”
“Are you any better than they are, Mr. Miller?”
“No. I am not. Never claimed to be.”
Something inside recoiled. His gaze held me—dark and merciless.
