Damien sat in the VIP box, his gaze fixed on the gallery below. His eyes found Emma instantly, as if the crowd didn’t exist. She walked in and slid into her seat—right beside Oliver. On his other side sat Shelby, draped against him like a parasite.
Damien’s jaw ticked, a vein pulsing at his temple.
“Davis,” he muttered, never blinking. “Does she look sad to you?”
Davis followed his line of sight, squinting. “Can you even see her from up here?”
“Her eyes look puffy,” Damien growled, his voice low, almost feral. “She’s been crying.”
And then, without another word, he pushed to his feet.
“Where are you going?” Davis hissed, alarmed.
“She’s sad.” Damien’s tone was final, dangerous. “She needs me.”
“You’re at an auction, Damien. Not your damn penthouse,” Davis snapped, grabbing his arm.
