Marcus wasn't done.
At two that afternoon, a package arrived.
I was in the kitchen, picking at a plate of fruit I didn't want. The penthouse felt too big, too quiet, like it was holding its breath. Damian was in his office with the door closed, making calls, giving orders. I'd stopped trying to listen.
Then the intercom buzzed.
"Miss Grace, there's a delivery for you."
I felt the hairs on my arms rise. "Leave it."
"I'm afraid it requires a signature."
I closed my eyes. My mind went to the last envelope the photos of me at the club, the typed note, the way Damian's face had gone cold. I should have called him. I should have waited. But some stubborn part of me wanted to prove I wasn't the scared girl from the stage anymore. That I could face this without running.
I walked to the doo
