Delilah made herself at home.
She sat at Damien’s dining table like she owned the air he breathed. Her tailored cream suit said boardroom. Her blood-red nails said battlefield.
Elira watched her across the room, one hand cradling Amira, the other clenching her phone so hard it threatened to crack.
“You should be careful,” Delilah said lazily, stirring her tea. “Court battles can get…messy.”
“Is that a threat?” Elira asked coldly.
“It’s a warning. Take the little girl and run. Leave Damien to the wolves he built.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Oh, darling,” Delilah purred. “That’s what the last girl said. And now she’s somewhere in France with no memory and an empty bank account.”
Damien entered before Elira could throw the tea kettle.
He looked between them—his worst nightmare playin
