The air in the office was suffocating, thick with the scent of whiskey, expensive leather, and the lingering remnants of his own rage.
The room bore the aftermath of his storm—papers scattered like fallen leaves, a crystal tumbler shattered against the far wall, and his desk, usually a symbol of his power, now shoved off-center, its contents spilling onto the floor.
The destruction was nothing compared to the wreckage inside him.
Damon paced, his boots echoing against the marble floor, his fingers twitching at his sides. His breaths were ragged, shallow.
His muscles coiled so tightly he felt like he might explode at any second. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it—the vision that was tearing him apart.
Sloane. In white.
A veil draped over her beautiful face, her lips curved i
