Chapter 5
Clara stood her ground, though her knees felt weak. She stepped closer to Margaret, her slender figure shielding the older woman. She placed her hands gently on Margaret's trembling shoulders. The truth was already sitting in the velvet chair; it didn't need her protection anymore.
"Do you think I am blind to the desperation of a woman holding the clothes of a stolen child?" Damian asked, stepping slowly around the edge of the table, his broad shoulders dominating the space. "Is selling flesh the only way you know how to balance a ledger?"
"It wasn't like that!" Celia shrieked, losing her aristocratic composure entirely. "They are poor, Damian! They have nothing! I placed the girl with a family that can give her the world! A family that made a very generous donation to the foundation! I did it for the charity! I did it for us!"
"Did you think I would crown a woman whose hands are stained with the trafficking of the innocent?" Damian asked, taking another slow, deliberate step toward her.
"You need me!" Celia sobbed, real tears of panic finally spilling over her rosy cheeks as she backed away, her satin gown catching on a velvet chair. "My family brings you the political cover you need! We built this philanthropic empire together! If you touch me, my father will pull his funding! He will start a war that will burn this city to the ground!"
"Do you think the threat of a war frightens me more than a monster operating under my name?" Damian inquired, tilting his head slightly, the cold, observant eyes narrowing into dark, lethal slits.
He didn't wait for her to process the absolute lack of mercy in his gaze. He reached into the inner pocket of his tailored dark suit, his refined artistic tattoos catching the golden light, and withdrew a heavy, encrypted mobile phone.
"Are you waiting in the grand foyer, Marcus?" Damian asked into the receiver. He paused, listening to his unseen underboss. "Will you bring two men into the dining room immediately?"
Celia gasped, her hands flying to her mouth in sheer, unadulterated terror. She knew exactly what Marcus did for the Westbrook syndicate. He was the man who made Damian’s problems disappear into the icy depths of the river.
"No! Damian, please!" Celia shrieked, kicking off her expensive heels and scrambling backward across the marble floor. "You can't do this! I am an Arden! My family will kill you!"
"Will they wage a war for a woman who sells children to the highest bidder?" Damian asked softly, his voice completely devoid of emotion as the heavy dining room doors swung open behind him.
Marcus, a towering man with a heavily scarred face and a dark trench coat, stepped into the room, flanked by two equally intimidating enforcers. They moved with absolute, silent precision, ignoring the lavish surroundings of crystal and ivory, focusing entirely on their boss.
"Will you escort this woman to the holding cells in the sub-basement?" Damian asked, not taking his eyes off the weeping woman backed against the carved walnut furniture.
"No! Please!" Celia shrieked, kicking and thrashing wildly as the two enforcers reached out and grabbed her by the arms. They hauled her to her feet with effortless strength, the delicate fabric of her sculpted satin gown tearing audibly at the seams. "My father will slaughter your entire family for this!"
"Will you ensure she is gagged if she continues to scream, Marcus?" Damian inquired, casually adjusting the cuff of his dark suit.
May you like
Marcus nodded grimly. "Yes, boss. Let's go, princess."
The enforcers dragged Celia backward toward the doors. Her threats devolved into hysterical, panicked sobs that echoed down the grand hallway until the heavy doors clicked shut behind them, sealing the dining room in a profound, suffocating silence once more.
