Damien checked his watch again. Eight-thirty.
Where the hell is Emma?
I had told Renne clearly to bring her. I have chosen Renne because Emma trusted her—because I wanted Emma to feel safe coming to me.
But she is not here.
“Still nothing?” Davis asked, scanning the glittering hall like a trained predator as he sipped his drink.
“No.” Damien’s voice was a quiet storm.
What’s taking her so long?
Before Davis could reply, Charlotte Connelly glided across the ballroom—red dress, red lips, red intentions. Cameras followed her like obedient pets.
She found Damien half-hidden by the heavy curtains, standing in the shadows like a man who didn’t belong to this world.
“There you are,” she purred, reaching to loop her arm through his.
Damien jerked away, gaze lethal.
“Touch me again,” he
