Davis straightened. “What are you implying?”
Damien didn’t answer with words.
He smirked—a slow, sinful, trouble-brewing smirk—as he pulled out his phone and dialed a number.
The line picked up instantly.
Damien’s voice dropped into a dark command.
“Find a dress for Emma. Bring her to the gala tonight.”
A beat.
“And that’s an order.”
He ended the call without waiting for a reply.
Then he lifted his head, meeting Davis’s gaze with a look that promised war.
He ended the call without waiting for a reply.
Then he lifted his head, meeting Davis’s gaze with a look that promised war.
“Let’s see,” Damien said, leaning back with a predator’s ease, “if the Connellys still want their precious princess engaged to me… after they watch me walk in with another woman in my arms.”
His smirk de
