Chapter 4 The First Threat

I didn't sleep that night.

Even hours after the call, long after I had convinced myself it was probably just someone trying to rattle me, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was very, very wrong.

I played the message over and over in my head.

"You don't know what you've walked into."

"If you want to make it out, you need to get out now."

There was no emotion in the voice. No anger, no urgency. Just cold certainty.

And that terrified me more than anything.

Because if someone wanted to scare me off, they would have threatened me. They would have told me to watch my back, that they would come for me if I didn't run.

This wasn't that.

This was a warning.

And whoever had made the call?

They truly believed I wouldn't make it out of this alive.

A Morning Surprise

I arrived at Damian's penthouse just after eight.

The engagement meant that my life was no longer entirely my own. My tiny apartment in Brooklyn was no longer a suitable place for "Damian Blackwood's fiancée" to live. And so, after an exhausting legal process to sign away half my privacy, I was given a key to his penthouse.

I wasn't sure what I had expected when I walked inside.

But Damian Blackwood in a t-shirt? Definitely not that.

He was standing near the kitchen, barefoot, a steaming mug of coffee in his hand, looking completely at ease in a way that made my brain short-circuit.

"Good morning," he said without looking up.

I narrowed my eyes. "Are you-making breakfast?"

He glanced at the marble counter, where a single, perfectly cut slice of toast rested on a plate.

"If you consider that breakfast, then yes."

I stared at him. The billionaire. The ruthless CEO. The man who could command an entire empire with a single word.

And he was eating toast.

I shook my head, pushing aside the ridiculous sight. "We need to talk."

His gaze flicked up to meet mine.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then, he set his coffee down. "Go ahead."

I hesitated. I hadn't planned out what I was going to say. I wasn't sure if I wanted to bring up the call-if I should tell him someone was trying to warn me away.

Would he even care?

Would he think I was being paranoid?

I studied him carefully, searching for any hint of vulnerability, anything that would tell me whether or not I could trust him.

But Damian Blackwood was unreadable.

So instead, I exhaled and said, "Whoever called you last night-who were they talking about?"

A flicker of something crossed his face.

Then, just as quickly, it was gone.

"Why do you ask?"

I folded my arms. "Because you left in the middle of a meeting, looking like someone had just told you the world was ending. And then you told someone to 'keep her alive.'"

Silence.

Damian didn't flinch. Didn't look away.

But I saw it-the brief hesitation, the subtle shift in his posture.

"Let it go, Alexis."

I laughed, shaking my head. "Not a chance."

His jaw tightened. "It doesn't concern you."

"It does if I'm supposed to be playing the role of your devoted fiancée."

"That was never part of the deal."

His voice was sharper now, colder. But I didn't back down.

I refused to let him shut me out.

"You don't get to keep me in the dark," I said, stepping closer. "Not when my name is now attached to yours."

His fingers flexed slightly against the counter. "You wanted the truth about your father. That's the only reason you're here."

"And if that truth puts me in danger?"

Something in his expression shifted.

For a split second, I thought he was going to tell me.

Then, his phone buzzed.

He pulled it out, glanced at the screen-and the tension in the room thickened.

I knew, immediately, that it wasn't a normal call.

I watched as his grip on the phone tightened slightly, his jaw clenching just before he answered.

"Speak," he said, his voice sharp.

I couldn't hear what the person on the other end was saying, but I saw the change in his posture-the slight stiffening of his shoulders, the way his fingers flexed as if he were trying to restrain himself.

And then, just before he ended the call, he murmured one final word.

"Understood."

When he set the phone down, I said, "Who was that?"

He didn't answer.

Instead, he reached for his coffee, took a slow sip, and then-**as if nothing had happened-**said, "You should get dressed."

I frowned. "Excuse me?"

"We're going out," he said, setting his cup down. "And unless you plan on meeting the press in that," he gestured vaguely at my blazer and slacks, "I suggest you change."

I scowled. "Where are we going?"

Damian picked up his phone again, tapping out a message. "To a gala."

I stared at him. "A gala?"

"A charity event," he clarified. "It's been planned for months, and since we're now engaged, we're expected to make an appearance together."

I crossed my arms. "You couldn't have told me this sooner?"

"You weren't officially my fiancée sooner."

I opened my mouth to argue-then stopped.

Because something wasn't right.

The call. The tension. The way he was brushing everything off like nothing had happened.

"You're lying," I said quietly.

Damian didn't flinch. "About what?"

"About this gala." I watched him carefully. "You didn't just decide this last minute. You're taking me somewhere specific, aren't you?"

A beat of silence.

Then, for the first time since I met him, Damian Blackwood did something that unnerved me more than anything else.

He smiled.

"Smart girl," he murmured.

Then, before I could press further, he turned and walked toward the door.

"I'll have a dress sent up," he called over his shoulder. "Be ready in an hour."

And just like that, he was gone.

Leaving me standing in his penthouse, realizing far too late that I had just stepped into something I wasn't prepared for.