Chapter 7
While Damon held Celeste paralyzed in his lethal gaze, Iris moved.
With trembling hands, she gently lifted Buttons from the open wicker basket. She cradled the soft, floppy-eared spaniel safely against her slightly rumpled white apron, her tears finally spilling over her lashes as she realized how close she had come to throwing him into the fire.
Three-year-old Milo immediately stepped closer to Iris. The toddler stood right beside the maid, his small hands reaching up to gently pat the puppy's soft fur. He watched the spaniel with profound, innocent relief, completely trusting the woman in the black dress to keep them both safe.
Damon remained standing perfectly still, positioned like a fortress between the socialite and his family. He fixed Celeste with a cold, unwavering stare that promised absolute, undeniable destruction.
"Damon, you cannot believe this is worth ending our alliance over," Celeste gasped, her chest heaving as the reality of her situation finally breached her arrogance. "We are supposed to unite our syndicates! You cannot throw all of that away because of a misunderstanding! I will buy him ten new dogs!"
"Are you prepared to remove the ring from your finger, Celeste, or must I cut it from your hand?" Damon asked, his deep voice carrying a measured, lethal calm.
Celeste flinched violently at the threat. She dropped her hands, her fair skin streaked with ruined makeup. She knew the stories of what Damon Rowe did to traitors within his syndicate.
"You can't do this!" Celeste choked out, the venom returning as self-preservation took over. "My father is Victor Marsh! He commands the entire southern seaboard! He will burn your empire to the ground if you humiliate me like this!"
"Is your father a man who fights battles for foolish, psychotic daughters who lack a human soul?" Damon asked quietly.
"He will kill you!" Celeste pleaded, reaching out to grasp the edge of the console. "I am going to be your wife, Damon! We signed the contracts! You cannot back out now without causing a massive war!"
"Do you expect me to harbor a monster under my roof to appease a shipping magnate?" Damon asked.
He slowly swept his gaze across the room, taking in the numerous capos, donors, and relatives standing frozen among the burgundy velvet seating. His eyes locked onto Vincent, his most trusted lieutenant.
"Have you all finished your drinks?" Damon asked the room at large.
May you like
It was phrased as a polite question, but the command hidden within it was unmistakable and absolute.
Guests practically scrambled toward the exits. There were no polite farewells, no lingering handshakes. Men in tailored suits and women in expensive evening gowns fled the bright, elegant room with frantic urgency, eager to escape the blast radius of Damon Rowe’s wrath.
