“But we wouldn’t want that, would we? I’m sure we’ll see each other again in New York, Miss Elfhorn.”
His eyes sharpened, darkened. The threat beneath his words was unmistakable.
“I don’t need Damian’s consent when it comes to winning someone over. Should I make you an offer you refuse…” His words hung unfinished. His glance slid again to the staircase, where Damian appeared with Silvia. “Well, there are always other ways to secure your… support, Miss Elfhorn.”
He winked. Slow. Deliberate. Another shiver cut through me. He wanted me to feel his power.
Damian returned to the table, face unreadable. Silvia, by contrast, smiled with quiet triumph.
“Did my daughter tell you what she wants?” Mason asked, voice even, eyes fixed on Damian.
A flicker crossed Damian’s face—gone as quickly as it came.
“And when would that be?” Mason pressed, his authority measured. “Since all the important matters have been discussed, you can go with Silvia immediately.”
Mason rose, his tone leaving no space for refusal.
“You know I can’t deny my daughter anything. If she wants to spend the evening with you, Damian, I suggest you allow it. I’d hate to see our deal fall through because she is heartbroken. She hasn’t stopped talking about you for days.”
A silence stretched taut. Damian nodded, detachment sliding into place like armor. My chest tightened, as if the ground had dropped from beneath me.
“All right,” he said. His voice gave nothing away.
“Daisy, I’ll take you to the driver. He’ll return you to the hotel.”
I rose slowly, meeting his gaze with a cool look I didn’t feel.
“Of course. Mr. Mason, Silvia—it was a pleasure,” I said, forcing civility, and followed Damian from the restaurant.
The air between us was thick, suffocating with what neither of us said. The car waited outside, gleaming under the streetlights. Damian opened the door.
I turned to him once more before slipping inside.
“You do know your priorities. Enjoy your evening.”
I sank into the seat as Ference climbed in beside me. Damian lingered at the door, face masked, hand gripping the frame.
“I will,” he snarled, slamming it shut. Two dull knocks struck the roof.
I flinched. The car pulled away.
Moments later, I yanked open the mini-fridge, searching for the strongest drink I could find. My fingers wrapped around a bottle of whiskey. I twisted it open, pressed it to my lips, and swallowed deep. The burn seared my throat. Tears followed. Humiliation. Hurt. Loneliness that felt unbearable.
Ference sat steady, watchful. He handed me a handkerchief.
“You shouldn’t do that, Miss Daisy.”
“Do what? Drink?”
He shook his head.
“Cry because of him.” His voice was quiet, and the weight of compassion in it made my throat tighten.
I gave a bitter snort and drank again.
“It’s my fault. He warned me more than once.”
“Mr. Miller is a complicated man,” Ference murmured.
