Chapter 9
The heavy iron gates of the estate stood tall against the night, but the luminous, warm light from the mansion spilled over the expansive marble steps and down the sweeping driveway, illuminating the tense standoff. A line of sleek, black SUVs sat idling aggressively just beyond the perimeter. The Whitlock family had arrived in force. Dozens of heavily armed men stood behind open car doors, their weapons trained on the mansion.
Damon Hartwell walked out of the heavy oak doors, stepping onto the grand portico. His tailored vest, shoulder holster, and neatly trimmed stubble cast a formidable silhouette in the clear, golden light. He moved with a slow, measured confidence, gripping the stone balustrade as he looked down at the invading force. Silas and a dozen of Damon’s most lethal enforcers fanned out behind him, their rifles raised and ready.
From the lead SUV, Marcus Whitlock emerged. He was an older, brutal-looking man in a heavy camel overcoat. His face was purple with rage.
“Give me my daughter, Damon! Now!” Marcus roared, his voice echoing off the stone facade of the mansion.
Damon did not raise his voice, but his deep, low baritone carried effortlessly across the tense driveway.
“Why should I return a thief who stole from my household and disrespected my staff?” Damon asked, his gaze cold and unwavering.
Marcus let out a harsh, barking laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “Over a servant? You locked my daughter in a basement cell over a pathetic little maid? Are you insane, Damon? We have an empire to run! Hand her over, or we will slaughter every single person on this property!”
“Is it insanity to demand respect under my own roof, Marcus?” Damon asked, leaning casually against the stone pillar.
“She is Sabine Whitlock!” Marcus bellowed. “She is a queen! That maid is nothing! She is dirt on our shoes! You are breaking a multi-million dollar treaty over a girl who scrubs toilets!”
Inside the mansion, Naomi stood behind the glass of the second-story balcony doors, watching the confrontation. Her heart raced, her fair, rosy skin pale with terror. She pressed her hand against the glass, her eyes locked on Damon’s broad shoulders.
“Do you honestly believe I measure a woman’s worth by the balance of her father’s bank account?” Damon asked, stepping away from the pillar, descending the first three marble steps toward the gates.
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Marcus drew his own weapon, pointing it directly at Damon’s chest. “This is your last chance, Hartwell. Produce Sabine, or I order my men to fire. You are outnumbered. You are outgunned.”
“Did you really think I would walk out here unprepared to meet you, Marcus?” Damon asked softly.
