The elevator ride back up to the penthouse was a nightmare of silence and heavy breathing. Damian didn't let go of my wrist for a single second. His grip wasn't painful, but it was absolute—a shackle of skin and bone that reminded me exactly who held the power here.
When the doors opened, he led me straight into his study. The room was still a mess from my earlier discovery; the blue folder was still lying on the floor, its contents scattered like the remains of my trust.
Damian slammed the door behind us and turned the lock. The click sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room.
"Sit," he commanded, gesturing to the leather armchair.
"I'm not a dog, Damian," I snapped, though my voice was still trembling from the adrenaline. I stood my ground, clutching the silk robe—Julian's robe—closer
