CHAPTER 8: AN UNHOLY ALLIANCE
The terrace suddenly felt stifling. It was as though the weight of each gaze, each murmured exchange weighed upon her as an unreduced burden.
She had just said something — something she couldn't unsay.
Standing at Damien's side wasn't mere defiance. It was a war.
She downed the rest of her champagne, the bubbles hissing down her throat. Her father would be furious. No—beyond furious.
Richard Lancaster had no patience for insubordination. And this? This was outright betrayal.
But what choice did she have?
"Breathe," Damien whispered again, this time more quietly.
She turned to look at him, barely masking her frustration.
"Do you enjoy this? Watching me scorch the earth I can't replant?"
His face was hard to read, but there was something dangerous in his voice.
"You think those bridges were still standing there?"
She hated that he was right.
Her father had already decided where her loyalty was.
Damien took the champagne flute from her hand that was empty and put it on a passing tray.
"Come with me."
"Where?"
He didn't respond, only took her wrist lightly and guided her from the crowd, along a private corridor lined with velvet curtains and gold sconces.
The party felt distant now, all that resounded behind them was the sound of their footsteps.
Damien opened a set of doors into a small, cozy, low-lit lounge.
Unlike the rest of the club, this space was almost empty, except for a bartender and a lone corner booth.
The air was heavy with the smell of costly whiskey and cigar smoke. Isla paused just past the threshold.
"This is where the real conversations are held," Damien said, letting go of her wrist.
Wrapping her arms around herself, trying to squeeze out some bit of control.
"What now?"
"You just wait until my father retaliates?"
Damien smiled and poured himself a drink from the bar.
"He will retaliate, not against me, but against the people. You are his weakness now."
A chill ran through her.
Her father wasn't about to go after Damien directly. Not yet. He'd go after her first.
Make an example of her. Make clear that the Lancaster family did not tolerate betrayal.
Damien slipped the glass of whiskey into her hand, watching her carefully.
"If you want out now's your time."
She didn't move.
He cocked his head, observing her. "No?"
She exhaled sharply. "I'm part of this whether I want to be or not."
There was a flicker of dark satisfaction on his face.
"Then we stop waiting."
He pushed a sleek black folder across the bar to her.
Isla hesitated for a moment, then flipped it open. The contents sent her stomach plummeting.
Bank statements. Offshore accounts. Wire transfers that came from her father — but not the ones from the charity scandal Damien had already uncovered.
No, this was worse.
These weren't only financial crimes. They were payments to people. Dangerous people.
"This isn't simply fraud," she said softly.
"This is—"
"Trafficking," Damien said, his voice tight.
Her breath caught.
She was aware that her father was not clean. She knew he was ruthless. But this?
"So this is what you meant," she whispered.
"No, when you're saying you weren't just taking him down, you were erasing him."
Damien's face was inscrutable. "This is what he deserves."
Isla snapped and closed the folder, her hands trembling. This was no longer about businessmen, corporate power struggle, financial takeover.
This was something far more sinister.
And she had only just passed the point of no return.
Damien stepped closer, speaking low and slow.
"Are you ready to complete the mission we started?"
***
Isla ran a fingertip along the edge of the folder, the weight of its contents settling into her bones.
This wasn't just business.
This was evil.
Her father — her own father — was financing operations that didn't simply skim money off the top. They dealt with life.
She swallowed, holding Damien's gaze. "And you've held on to this since whenever?
His expression didn't waver. "Long enough."
A brief flash of anger pierced through the shock.
"And you waited until now to tell me?"
Damien leaned back against the bar, toying with his whiskey.
"Would you have believed me prior to tonight?"
She hated that he was right.
Just hours earlier, she had been willing to remain in the shadows of her father's empire, to play her part, to fight for his legacy. But now? Now, she could see the rot underneath the gold-plated exterior.
Yet betrayal burned in her throat. "I deserved to know."
Damien exhaled sharply. "You're right." He set his glass down with a rattling clink, and crossed the distance between them.
"But you also deserved a choice. I was not going to involve you in that unless you decided to credit yourself on the side of the war."
She let out a bitter laugh. "Like I have a choice now?"
His gaze was unwavering. "You always have a choice."
But what was her alternative? Return to her father and pretend she had not seen the evidence? That she could still be his daughter, still stand at his side?
No.
That version of Isla Lancaster no longer existed.
She glanced down at the folder again, took a deep breath, and closed it with finality.
"What's our next move?"
A spark of approval glinted in Damien's eyes.
"We start bleeding him dry."
He made his way past her, grabbed his phone, and shot off a message.
Moments later, her own phone lit up.
She glanced down.
A location. A time. No explanation.
"What's this?" she asked warily.
Damien smirked. "Your first real lesson in how to kill a man."
***
Richard Lancaster was not an often Out-of-Control person.
He had spent years honing the art of power — recognizing when to push, when to recede, when he could have others eliminate rage blocks without getting his own hands dirty.
But tonight?
Tonight, he was livid.
The minute the gala had erupted in chaos, he'd known who was to blame. Damien Cross.
The bastard had come for his throne—and to make matters worse, he had used Isla to do it.
Richard found himself alone in his private study, the pale glow of his computer screencasting light across the papers sprawled across his desk.
His PR crew were doing damage control, but even they knew — this was not something that could be spun out.
He pushed a button on his intercom. "Bring him in."
The door opened, and a man came in. Not Blanton, not one of his smooth corporate advisors. Not a lawyer.
Nah, this one was a different type of associate.
One who worked in the type of business Damien Cross thought he knew all about — but had no clue how far it went.
The man's face was blank, the man himself a shadow.
Richard put his hands together on the desk.
"Learn everything there is to know about Damien Cross."
A pause.
"And burn it to the ground."