Damon watched the video with the sound off.
He didn’t need audio to understand the shape of it. The camera phone footage was grainy, a smear of color and bodies under club lights, but the frame kept snapping back to her. Mya—smiling in a way he hadn’t seen in years—moved across the dance floor in the arms of a man he didn’t recognize. Not a client. Not one of the city’s ornamental heirs who cluttered charity galas. A stranger with workman’s shoulders and an easy, infuriating steadiness. They weren’t pressed indecently close, they weren’t putting on a show for the crowd, and somehow that made Damon’s stomach twist harder. It looked effortless, unmanufactured. Real.
He replayed the loop again. Again. His jaw ached.
Across his office, the floor-to-ceiling windows turned the city into a wal
