Chapter 8
"What are you doing?!" Celeste shrieked, watching her audience, her leverage, and her protection sprint for the heavy mahogany doors. "You can't just dismiss them! My family's capos are in this room!"
The men loyal to the Marsh family did not stay. They took one look at the cold, calculating fury in Damon's eyes and the armed men loyal to the Rowe syndicate stepping out from the shadows, and they ran just as fast as the civilians.
Within ninety seconds, the expansive grand reception room was completely empty, save for Damon, Celeste, Iris, Milo, and four heavily armed Rowe bodyguards.
The heavy mahogany doors slammed shut, sealing the room and locking Celeste inside with her greatest nightmare.
Damon didn't wait for her to speak again. He reached into his tailored jacket and retrieved a sleek, encrypted smartphone. He dialed a single digit and pressed the phone to his ear. The small artistic tattoo above his collar shifted seamlessly with the movement.
"Vincent," Damon said into the receiver, his eyes locked on his former fiancée. "Will you come to the hall and escort Miss Marsh to the holding cells beneath the east wing immediately?"
He lowered the phone and looked at the broken socialite one last time.
"Have you finally realized the price of your ambition, Celeste?" Damon asked softly, as the heavy mahogany doors of the hall burst open.
Vincent and another massive security guard in dark suits entered the room. They marched forward without a word, hauling Celeste roughly to her feet. She shrieked, thrashing wildly against their iron grip, but they were unyielding.
"You will regret this, Damon!" she screamed as they dragged her backward toward the doors. "You will all burn for this!"
"Will you convey my deepest regards to your father when I send him the pieces of his syndicate?" Damon asked quietly, watching the doors slam shut.
The profound, ringing silence of the grand reception settled heavily over the remaining figures. The cascading crystal chandeliers continued to cast their warm golden light over the evergreen garlands and the towering Christmas tree. The opulent space, designed for celebration, now felt entirely different—it was a sanctuary of protection.
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Damon stood silently for a moment, his broad shoulders rising and falling with a slow, controlled breath. The betrayal was absolute, the upcoming syndicate war with Celeste’s father inevitable, but the immediate, toxic sickness within his home had been surgically removed. Now, he had to secure his son and the woman who had suffered to protect them.
He turned his body, pivoting seamlessly on the polished marble floors, and focused his entire attention back on Iris, Milo, and the sleeping puppy.
