Damien’s POV
When Isabella didn’t return after seven minutes, I knew something was wrong.
My gut twisted with a sudden violence, the way it used to on nights before a deadly meeting. I scanned the ballroom—faces blurred beneath masks, laughter like static. But one note was missing.
Hers.
I should have followed her.
I stalked toward the ladies’ room, each step purposeful, each heartbeat louder than the last. I didn’t bother knocking—I shoved the door open, startling a pair of women at the mirror. Neither was her.
The last stall was closed.
“Isabella,” I called sharply. No response.
The women stared. I ignored them.
I kicked the door open.
Empty.
The breath in my lungs turned to fire.
The knot in my stomach coiled tighter as a bad feeling crept into my chest, slow and cold.
Empt
