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

The alarm was not a siren; it was a rhythmic, pulsing klaxon that instantly plunged the estate into lockdown mode.

Steel security shutters slammed down over the library’s exterior windows with the force of guillotine blades, vibrating the heavy limestone walls. Red emergency lights flickered to life along the baseboards.

Damian’s tenderness vanished instantly, replaced by lethal precision.

In one fluid motion, he pulled a customized Sig Sauer from a concealed holster beneath his armpit, racking the slide with a clean, metallic *clack*.

“Stay behind me,” he ordered, his voice flat, devoid of panic.

He stepped in front of me, shielding me completely with his broad frame as he kicked the library door open. The hallway was empty, but Marco was already sprinting down the grand staircase, his weapon drawn.

“Report,” Damian snapped.

“Perimeter breach at the west gatehouse,” Marco shouted over the low pulse of the alarm. “A courier van rammed the secondary barrier. Two men on foot made it across the lawn before the security team engaged. They’re down.”

“Luca?” Damian’s voice carried a dangerous, razor-sharp edge.

“Secure in the safe room with Mrs. Gable,” Marco confirmed. “The intruders didn’t have heavy weapons, boss. They weren’t trying to breach the manor.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed. “Then what were they doing?”

“They left something on the stone steps.”

Three minutes later, Damian and I stood in the main foyer. Four armed guards formed a defensive perimeter around the grand entrance. On the marble floor, right outside the reinforced front door, sat a small, square wooden box wrapped in a black ribbon.

A bomb-disposal technician in heavy tactical gear knelt over it, completing a sweep with a handheld scanner.

“Clear, Mr. Vescari,” the technician reported, stepping back. “No explosives. No biological contaminants. Just an object.”

Damian stepped forward, nudging the lid open with the muzzle of his firearm.

Inside, resting on a bed of black velvet, was a rose.

It wasn't an ordinary flower. It was sculpted entirely from jagged, broken pieces of green champagne glass—the exact shade and thickness of the bottles served at Bellamy House. Tucked beneath the stem was a small, embossed card.

Damian picked up the card with gloved fingers. His jaw tightened so hard I heard his teeth grind.

“What does it say?” I asked, stepping up beside him, ignoring Marco’s warning glance.

Damian held it out so I could see the neat, handwritten calligraphy:

*A souvenir for the girl who bleeds so well. Enjoy the Drake on Friday, Damian. We have a front-row seat for both of you.*

A cold knot tightened in my gut. They knew I was here. They knew about Friday.

“Julian,” I whispered.

“Julian Vance doesn't have the stomach for this kind of theatricality,” Damian said, his voice dropping into a chilling calm that was far more terrifying than a scream. “He’s working with an enforcer. A butcher named Sal Gallo. Gallo likes souvenirs.”

He turned to Marco, his eyes black as pitch. “Double the perimeter guards. Call our contacts at O'Hare and Midway. If Gallo tries to leave the county after Friday, I want his pilot’s head on a spike.”

“Yes, sir.” Marco hurried off to bark orders into his radio.

The lockdown lifted thirty minutes later, the heavy shutters rolling up with a mechanical hum. Damian sent the guards back to their posts and walked toward the grand staircase.

I followed him up, my heart pounding against my ribs. “Damian. You can’t go to the Drake on Friday. It’s an ambush.”

He stopped on the landing, beneath the towering stained-glass window that cast fractured moonlight across his broad shoulders. He turned slowly, looking down at me.

“If I hide, they smell fear,” he said quietly. “If they smell fear, they will keep throwing glass until one of those shards finds Luca’s throat. The only way to end this is to walk into the fire and consume the people who lit it.”

“Then let me come with you,” I blurted out.

The words hung between us, shocking even me.

Damian stared at me, his eyes searching my face with disbelief. “You nearly died two weeks ago, Emma. You have a scar that hasn't finished closing. Why would you walk into the den of the wolves?”

“Because the note was for me, too,” I said, lifting my chin, refusing to shrink under his gaze. “Because Julian Vance thinks I’m an innocent server who panicked. If I am by your side, he will assume you are distracted, arrogant, parading your charity case. He won’t expect you to strike.”

Damian took two slow steps toward me, closing the distance until our chests nearly brushed. He reached out, his warm, strong hand cupping the side of my face, his thumb tracing the line of my cheekbone with an agonizing gentleness.

“You are remarkably brave, Emma Carter,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to my lips before rising back to my eyes. “Or remarkably insane.”

“Probably a little of both,” I whispered.

A slow, dark smile curved Damian’s mouth—the first real smile I had ever seen on him. It transformed his face, making him look dangerously, breathtakingly handsome.