Damon’s POV:
I rubbed my temples, the pressure of my fingertips doing little to quell the throbbing headache that had taken root behind my eyes. I’d had two cups of black coffee since sunrise and barely a morsel of food.
Every few seconds, Ophelia’s face would flash before me. I replayed her words from this morning over and over. She had told me everything—or at least, she thought she had. But even in her vulnerability, she was still guarded. She’d insisted that the horrific, puckered wounds on the soles of her feet were merely an "accident" from her childhood at the orphanage.
Liar. I knew a burn from a cigarette when I saw one, and I knew the difference between a clumsy fall and a calculated act of cruelty.
I sat at the head of the long mahogany table in the Beaufort boardroom. Aroun
