At this moment, Henry's gaze was clear—nothing like the devilish man I had faced earlier that day.
He wasn't angry. He just looked at me quietly, as if he both expected me and yet found me completely unfamiliar.
Then it hit me—I was wearing a mask. That thought eased some of my nerves.
Could it be that he didn't recognize me because of it?
Yeah, right. This was Henry Harington we were talking about.
Or was this just another one of his sick games?
Was he expecting me to act like some desperate woman throwing herself at him? Pretending not to know me just to play along?
The thought alone made my blood boil.
I shot to my feet, ready to walk out, but before I could take two steps, he grabbed my arm.
I turned to face him, meeting his calm, clear gaze.
There was no lust in his eyes, on
