the man behind the mask

Morning in the Cross mansion was quiet.

Too quiet.

Olivia stepped into the vast kitchen in silk pajama pants and a robe she hadn't chosen. Damon's staff had stocked her wardrobe with nothing but couture and silk—expensive cages in fabric form.

A housekeeper glanced up from the counter. "Good morning, Mrs. Cross."

The title still made her skin crawl.

"Coffee," Olivia said with a polite nod. "Black."

The woman nodded and moved to prepare it. Olivia glanced at the massive wall of windows overlooking the courtyard. No Damon. No footsteps. Just tension curling in her chest like a slow-burning fuse.

She sipped her coffee in silence until the man himself entered like a storm wearing designer cologne.

Hair wet. White dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar. Cufflinks in hand. Calm, powerful, lethal.

"Sleep well?" Damon asked as if they were an actual married couple instead of hostages in a designer warzone.

"Like a woman awaiting trial," she said, sipping her coffee.

He poured himself a glass of orange juice and leaned on the counter. "Charming, as always."

"What do you want, Damon?"

"To remind you that we're having brunch with your father today."

Her mug paused midair.

"I wasn't told."

"I'm telling you now."

She set the mug down. "I'm not ready."

"You look ready."

"I'm not going."

He walked around the counter, stopping inches from her. His cologne wrapped around her like smoke—dangerous and addictive. His hand lifted to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

"You'll go," he murmured. "And you'll smile while you do it."

Her breath hitched.

Then she slapped his hand away. "Touch me again and I'll break your fingers."

He chuckled, dark and low. "I'm beginning to think you might actually enjoy this."

She shoved past him, but he caught her wrist.

"Don't make me remind you why you're here," he said coldly. "Your father stays out of prison because I allow it. Don't forget that."

Her jaw tightened, and she yanked her arm free. "The moment I get what I need, I'll make sure you regret everything."

"Good." He smiled again, slow and dangerous. "I'd hate for our marriage to be boring."

Later—Brunch with the Devil

The restaurant was high-end, floor-to-ceiling glass, perched on the 48th floor overlooking the skyline. Reserved. Private. Every fork polished to perfection. Every breath monitored.

Olivia walked in beside Damon, her hand reluctantly looped through his arm for show.

Her father was already seated. So was someone else.

A woman. Mid-thirties. Blood red lipstick and perfectly sharp cheekbones. She stood the moment she saw them.

Damon's grip on Olivia's arm tightened for half a second.

"Olivia," he said smoothly, "this is Seraphina Kane."

Olivia's smile froze.

Seraphina. The name wasn't just familiar—it was infamous. PR director. Power player. And, according to tabloids, Damon's former fiancée.

"Nice to meet you," Olivia said with the grace of a queen and the chill of a dagger.

Seraphina's smile was flawless. "Likewise. I've heard… stories."

"Oh, I'm sure you've heard them. Probably whispered them yourself."

Damon cleared his throat. "Seraphina is helping oversee the expansion project in Paris. She'll be working closely with me."

Olivia didn't miss the way Seraphina's eyes flicked to her husband.

Or how Damon said closely.

"Well, good luck," Olivia said with a smile. "You'll need it, working under Damon."

Seraphina's eyes gleamed. "I'm used to being under him."

The table went silent.

Her father coughed awkwardly.

Damon's expression didn't flicker, but Olivia saw it—the faint twitch of his jaw. He was furious. And she loved it.

She leaned forward with a venom-laced smile. "Don't worry, darling. I'll make sure you get all the support you need."

Seraphina just smiled and sipped her champagne.

The rest of the brunch was a masterclass in silent war.

Smiles that cut.