Chapter 2 The Voss Gala

Isla's skin prickled as she turned from Damien's gaze. She needed distance before her mask cracked. The way he said her name-like he owned it, like he'd peeled it from her without permission-unsettled her in a way Ethan never could.

The ballroom felt colder now, though laughter and champagne still sparkled in the air. Isla grabbed a glass of something gold from a passing waiter and sipped it to steady herself. Not wine-this was war. And Damien Voss had just accepted the first move.

Across the room, Damien watched her. He didn't speak to anyone, just sipped his drink and let the crowd orbit around him.

She had his attention. That was clear.

Now she had to hold it.

"Isla?"

She turned sharply. Ethan. Of course.

He was alone-no sign of the bleach-blonde traitor he'd tangled in their bed. His suit was expensive, his smile fake. He looked her up and down like she was a ghost in a dress that accused him.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he hissed, grabbing her elbow.

"Let go." Her voice was low but lethal.

"You weren't invited."

"I didn't come for you."

That hit him harder than a slap. "Then why are you here?"

"To remind you," she said sweetly, "that I don't lose."

Before he could respond, a voice cut through the tension.

"Is there a problem here?"

Ethan stiffened. Isla smiled.

Damien.

He was standing behind Ethan now, taller, darker, dangerous. Ethan turned and nearly flinched.

"N-no. Just catching up," he stammered.

Damien's eyes never left Isla. "Miss Monroe, care for a walk?"

It wasn't a question.

Isla slipped her arm into his. "I'd love to."

And just like that, Ethan was left behind-mouth open, fists clenched, watching his father walk away with the girl he'd discarded.

Damien led Isla through a side hall lined with glass art and low golden light. When they were alone, he finally spoke.

"Revenge is a sharp blade, Miss Monroe. Are you sure your hands are steady enough to hold it?"

Isla met his gaze. "Are you offering to teach me how?"

He didn't smile. "No. I'm warning you."

"I don't need your warnings. I need an opening."

Damien stopped walking. "You're playing with fire."

"So burn me."

For a moment, silence stretched between them like a wire pulled tight. Then Damien reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek with slow precision.

"You don't know what you're asking for," he said.

"Then show me."

He looked at her like a man staring at a storm approaching. Not afraid. Just calculating how much damage it would do.

"Not here," he said finally. "Not yet."

Then he turned and walked away-leaving Isla breathless, shaken, and more alive than she'd felt in months.