The room was still spinning.
The music from the party downstairs still echoed faintly through the hallways, but for Damian, it was like someone had turned the volume down on the world. Everything felt muted—distant—as if he were underwater.
He sat behind his desk in the upstairs study, the letter gripped so tightly in his hand it was starting to tear.
Camila Cruz.
The name felt like a curse. Like ice sliding down his spine and settling in his gut.
His jaw clenched, a muscle twitching in his temple. He slammed the paper down on the desk with a thud that felt louder than it was, pushing his chair back so hard it screeched across the marble floor.
He stood, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.
Not from fear.
From rage.
He tore off his blazer and flung it aside like it was
