The champagne glass hit me before I understood someone had thrown it.

Two weeks passed, settling into a rhythm that was equal parts idyllic and terrifying.

My stitches were removed on a Tuesday by a private doctor who visited the estate without marking his vehicle. The jagged pink scar on my hip was still sensitive, but I could finally walk without clutching my ribs.

My routine centered around Luca.

He was brilliant, stubborn, and desperately lonely. His mother had passed away from an illness when he was two, leaving him in a massive estate populated mostly by armed bodyguards and silent housekeepers. He had never been to a regular playground. Every toy he owned had been scanned for surveillance bugs.

In the mornings, we sat in the sunlit conservatory, working on his reading and math. In the afternoons, we built elaborate Lego fortresses on the Persian rugs. For the first time since my mother died five years ago, my life didn't revolve around chasing overtime shifts or eating cold canned soup over a sink.

Yet, Damian Vescari remained a shadow.

He left before dawn and returned long after Luca was asleep. But every night, around eleven, I would hear his heavy, solitary footsteps pacing the hallway outside my bedroom door. He never knocked. He merely checked the perimeter, lingering for a heartbeat outside my room, before retreating to his study on the third floor.

One night, unable to sleep due to the phantom ache in my side, I crept down to the kitchen to make chamomile tea.

The ground floor was dark, illuminated only by the faint landscape lights reflecting off the snow outside. As I passed the double doors of the library, a streak of yellow light spilled across the hardwood.

The door was slightly ajar. Low voices drifted out.

“…traced the shell company to Julian Vance,” Marco was saying, his voice taut. “Vance has been funneling logistics money through the port authority. He thinks if he destabilizes your control of the north docks, the Morettis will back him for the board seat.”

“Julian was my father’s second cousin,” Damian’s voice responded, cold and devoid of human warmth. “He stood at my father’s funeral and swore loyalty.”

“He’s ambitious, boss. And he’s desperate. He lost eighty million in Macau last quarter. Bellamy House was supposed to panic you into taking Luca out of the country. With you in Europe, Vance would have seized the shipping manifests.”

A glass clicked against mahogany.

“He used glass,” Damian said softly. “A coward’s weapon. He aimed at a child.”

“What do you want us to do?”

“Nothing yet,” Damian said. “Julian is hosting an anniversary gala at the Drake Hotel next Friday. He expects me to remain hidden in Lake Forest, cowering behind my walls. Instead, we will attend. We will smile. And we will let him show his hand.”

I took a step backward, my heel squeaking faintly against the polished floorboards.

Instantly, the conversation ceased.

Before I could turn to run, the heavy oak door was yanked wide open.

Damian stood in the entryway, a crystal tumbler of scotch in his hand. He wore a crisp white dress shirt with the top three buttons undone, the cuffs rolled back, his eyes blazing like twin coals in the dark.

When he saw me, the predatory tension in his shoulders dropped by a fraction of an inch, replaced by an exasperated sigh.

“Marco. Leave us,” he commanded quietly.

Marco slipped past me without a word, giving me a brief, evaluating nod before vanishing down the corridor.

“Do you make a habit of eavesdropping on private security briefings, Miss Carter?” Damian asked, leaning against the doorframe, looking down at my bare feet and oversized cardigan.

“I wanted tea,” I said defensively, crossing my arms. “And you left the door open.”

He stared at me for a long moment, the amber liquid in his glass swirling gently. “Come inside.”

I hesitated, then stepped into the library.

The room was vast, lined from floor to ceiling with leather-bound books, smelling richly of aged paper, leather, and expensive tobacco. A massive mahogany desk dominated the center, covered in blueprints, shipping logs, and financial printouts.

“You heard Julian’s name,” Damian stated rather than asked, walking over to pour another splash of scotch.

“I heard,” I admitted, standing near the leather armchair. “Is he dangerous?”

“To me? No. To people I care about? Extremely.” Damian took a sip, his gaze locked onto mine over the rim of the glass. “He is reckless. Reckless men are unpredictable.”

“Then why are you going to his event on Friday? Why not just… have the police arrest him?”

Damian let out a short, dry chuckle that held no humor. “The police operate in a world of paperwork and reasonable doubt, Emma. Julian owns three district judges and two deputy chiefs. If I hand him to the law, he walks within forty-eight hours and strikes harder. In my world, treason is settled privately.”

The cold reality of who he was hit me again, sharp and chilling. And yet, looking at him—exhausted, carrying the weight of a multi-billion-dollar empire, haunted by the memory of his terrified son—I couldn't fear him.

“You’re tired,” I said quietly, the words slipping out unbidden.

Damian froze. He lowered his glass, looking at me with an intensity that made the air in the library suddenly feel suffocatingly thick.

“People do not usually tell me that,” he said, his voice dropping into a husky register.

“People usually want something from you,” I countered, stepping closer to the desk. “Or they’re terrified you’re going to destroy them.”

“And you’re not terrified?”

“I saw you crawl across shattered glass to hold your son,” I said softly, looking straight into those dark, guarded eyes. “A monster wouldn’t have done that. A monster would have saved himself.”

Damian set his glass down on the mahogany surface with a dull thud. He moved around the desk, closing the distance between us until he stood less than a foot away. The heat radiating from him was palpable.

“You don’t know what I am, Emma,” he whispered, his hand rising slowly, hesitating before his calloused fingertips gently brushed a stray strand of hair behind my ear. His touch was electric, sending a shiver cascading down my spine. “You see the father. You do not see the beast that keeps the wolves away from the gate.”

“Maybe,” I breathed, unable to tear my gaze away from his lips. “Or maybe you just forgot that you’re allowed to be human.”

His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking beneath his skin. For a split second, I thought he was going to lean down and kiss me. The tension in the room coiled so tightly it felt like glass ready to shatter.