The morning came with rain—silver sheets sliding down the tall windows, turning the estate grounds into a watercolor of grey and green.
Diana was halfway through tying her robe when the knock came.
Not Damien. Claiborne.
"Mr. Blackthorne requests your presence in the car. Immediately."
Her stomach tightened. "Where are we going?"
Claiborne's tone was politely empty. "He didn't say."
---
Damien was waiting in the back seat of another black car, a sleek umbrella propped beside him. He didn't look up from the tablet in his hand until she slid in.
"You said I wasn't leaving your side," she murmured. "Does that mean I'm your… accessory for the day?"
His eyes finally met hers, unreadable. "It means I'm not in the mood for another rescue attempt."
The car pulled away.
---
They drove into the city, the rain softening to mist. Glass towers loomed, their reflections breaking across the wet streets. Finally, the car stopped outside a private club—no sign, just a heavy mahogany door and a discreet brass bell.
Inside, the air smelled of polished wood and old money. The rooms were dim, lit by low amber lamps. Men in tailored suits murmured over brandy.
Damien's hand rested at the small of her back as he guided her to a table in a corner alcove.
"You'll sit. You'll listen. You'll speak only if I tell you to."
"And if I don't?" she asked quietly.
The corner of his mouth curved. "Then you'll learn the cost."
---
She watched as powerful-looking men joined them—three in total. Their eyes flicked to her, curious but careful. The conversation was all in code, business cloaked in polite phrases.
Until one of them leaned forward, his gaze lingering a fraction too long on her. "And this must be the new Mrs. Blackthorne."
Diana opened her mouth—only to feel Damien's fingers press lightly against her thigh under the table. A warning.
She shut it again.
---
Half an hour later, Damien excused them. In the car, she turned to him.
"Why bring me at all if I'm just supposed to sit there like furniture?"
His gaze cut to hers, cool and assessing.
"Because sometimes the most dangerous move you can make… is simply being seen."
She frowned. "Seen by who?"
He didn't answer.
---
Two blocks away, in the rain-damp shadow of an alley, Cassie closed her umbrella and slipped into the passenger seat of a waiting sedan.
Rhys was in the driver's seat, watching the private club's entrance through binoculars.
"She's with him," Cassie said.
Rhys's jaw flexed. "Good. That means she's right where I want her."
He lowered the binoculars, his eyes sharp.
"Follow them. And when the timing's right—cut the leash."