When he rushed home to share the news, Damon was lounging on the sofa, a half-finished glass of whiskey beside him and a financial magazine open in his hand.
At the mention of Sloane attending the masquerade, his eyes flickered. Then a small, satisfied smile curved his lips.
A dance tomorrow. The cooling-off period ended the day after.
So that was it, she wanted to reconcile.
“She’s finally coming around,” he murmured, amused. “About time.”
He pulled out his phone and called his stylist.
“Find me something suitable for a masquerade,” he ordered.
When asked about his wardrobe, he grimaced slightly.
The cloakroom hadn’t been touched in a month, a mess of scattered clothes and forgotten memories.
He didn’t even bother stepping inside.
Still, his mood was unusua
