The penthouse was a museum of polished perfection, silence, and sterility. She moved through the marbled rooms she’d never truly loved, heading straight for the dressing room that was larger than Serena’s entire apartment. She worked with efficient haste, folding only the pieces that felt likeher—simple silks, well-cut trousers, a few vintage finds she’d secretly adored. The rest, the parade of couture gowns and stiff, beaded jackets, she left hanging like ghosts.
As she worked, her mind leaped ahead, soothed by the warm, steady thrum of the mate bond. She imagined walking into Drake Holdings not as the assistant, but asCamille Drake, Partner. She pictured design meetings where her ideas weren’t just noted but championed. She saw Leander across the conference table, giving her that look—the one that was equal parts pride, possession, and blistering heat. She thought of their home, of tangled sheets and whispered plans, of a future where family meant warmth and noise and unconditional love.
A future where she could finally, freely, build.
She was smiling, a real, unguarded smile, as she zipped the second suitcase closed. The bond hummed with Leander’s distant strength, a psychic infusion of courage.
“Packing light. I admire that.”
The voice, smooth as aged whiskey and utterly unexpected, sliced through her reverie.
Camille’s head snapped up. Damian Cross leaned against the doorframe of the dressing room, his posture deceptively relaxed, and his piercing blue eyes fixed on her with unnerving focus.
Her heart gave a violent kick against her ribs. The warm pulse of the bond flared into a sudden alarm.
“Damian.” Her voice held steady somehow. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you.” He took a step into the room, his gaze drifting over the half-empty racks.
The air in the dressing room, once just cold and sterile, turned thick and dangerous, pressing in on Camille from all sides. The racks of abandoned couture now looked like silent spectators.
“How did you get in here?” The question cut through the suffocating quiet.
Damian’s smile was a thin, practiced line. He took a casual step closer, his polished loafers silent on the marble. “I had a meeting with your father this morning. He and your mother are… deeply concerned. He mentioned you’d be here, collecting your things. He asked me to pop by, see if I could talk some sense into you.”
A fresh wave of betrayal, cold and slick, washed over her. They hadn’t just disapproved. They’d called in the cavalry. They’d handed her over like a misbehaving asset to be managed.
“I didn’t ask for that.” Her voice was ice. “And there is nothing you can say to change my mind.”
“Oh, but you will change it.” His tone lost its casual edge, hardening into something absolute. “Your parents were very clear. I am to do whatever is necessary to convince you not to abandon the St. James legacy. Not to throw your reputation—and theirs—away on some reckless whim with a dangerous man.”
The word ‘whatever’ hung in the air, heavy with implication. Camille’s fingers tightened on the handles of her suitcases. The mate bond, which had been a steady hum of Leander’s focus, suddenly spiked with a distant, questioning alarm.
He felt her panic.
“This conversation is over.” She moved, trying to brush past him with all the regal dismissal she’d been taught.
His hand shot out, his fingers closing like a steel manacle around her upper arm. The grip was brutal, intended to shock and subdue.
“You can do this the easy way,” he said, his voice dropping to a predatory murmur right by her ear. “Or the hard way.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.” She tried to wrench her arm free, but his hold was immovable.
“Oh, but you are.”
With a sharp jerk, he pulled her forward. The suitcases fell from her hands, hitting the floor with twin, hollow thuds. He marched her, stumbling, through the silent penthouse, his grip a brand of possession that made her skin crawl. The elevator ride to the private underground garage was a cage of his making, his body blocking the controls and his grip tightening on both her arms as she tried to wrestle free.
When the elevator door opened, a black SUV waited. Two unfamiliar men sat in the front, their faces impassive. Damian yanked the rear door open and shoved her inside, sliding in beside her before she could scramble away.
As the vehicle pulled out, Camille lunged for the door handle. Damian caught her wrists, twisting them just enough to make her gasp.
“Keep resisting,” he said, his blue eyes glacial. “And I’ll have no choice but to drug you. I’d hate to do that. You’ll hate it more.”
The clinical threat cut through her panic. A drugged stupor meant no chance of escape and no way to communicate. She forced her body to go still, her mind racing. Leander. The mate bond. She focused inward, on that new, miraculous connection that felt like a live wire straight to his soul. She poured every ounce of her fear, her location, and her desperation down that line.
Help. Damian has me. He’s taking me somewhere.
Suddenly, as if he’d sensed the psychic whisper, Damian’s head snapped toward her. “Clever girl,” he sneered. He produced a black silk scarf from his pocket. “But I’m not giving you any advantages.” The blindfold was tied tight, plunging her world into oppressive darkness.
