(Damien's POV)
The city at dawn was a strange thing.
From the glass wall of the penthouse, Damien could see it stretch in every direction—steel towers glinting faintly in the thin winter light, traffic threading along avenues in a slow, patient crawl. From up here, the noise didn't reach him. The chaos below was softened, muted, as though the world existed under glass and he alone stood outside it.
The Hudson was a strip of dark steel under a pale sky, the river's current indifferent to the thousands of lives that moved along its edges. He preferred this view in winter. The cold stripped the city of its pretense, left it bare. Honest, in a way people rarely were.
His penthouse was silent save for the faint hum of the heating system. Everything in it was deliberate: sharp angles, dark tones, no clutter. A living space that reflected control and resisted intrusion. The only warmth came from the cup of coffee cooling in his hand, rich and black, without the distraction of sugar or cream.
He should have been satisfied this morning. By all measures, last night had been a success. Julian's conversation with Ward had ended exactly as Damien intended—abruptly, without promises, leaving Julian scrambling to repair something that would never be whole again.
But the image that replayed in his mind wasn't Julian's stiff smile or Ward's measured retreat.
It was her.
The younger Rothwell sister.
Standing at the edge of the ballroom in that silver gown, her eyes locked on him in a way that felt… deliberate. Not the fleeting curiosity of a stranger, but something heavier. As though she saw through the name he was using, through the cut of the suit, to the man beneath.
Dangerous, his mind told him.
Curiosity, his instincts whispered.
He turned from the window, set the cup down on the counter, and poured another. The smell filled the air—dark, bitter. He let the warmth seep into his palms, grounding him in the present.
At precisely nine, the elevator's private chime sounded. Elise stepped into the room without hesitation, her black wool coat sharp against the pale marble floor. Her heels clicked in a rhythm as precise as the rest of her.
"You've been up for hours," she observed, glancing toward the coffee pot.
"Sleep is inefficient," he replied, without looking up from the tablet on the counter.
She set her bag down, unbuttoning her coat with smooth, practiced movements. "Ward called Julian at midnight. Cancelled their lunch today. Said he's 'reconsidering' the terms."
Damien's mouth curved faintly. "One seed, well placed."
"And Julian's already watering it with panic," Elise said, pulling a folder from her bag. "He reached out to two secondary investors before sunrise. They declined. Word's already moving."
He accepted the folder, scanning the notes. "And the Rothwells?"
"They stayed late," Elise said. "The elder sister—Clara—spent most of the evening in conversation with the board wives. Graceful, attentive. Twice she mentioned how 'Damien would have loved this event.'"
His gaze lifted from the page. "Damien Kane?"
Elise's brow arched. "The elder one adored you. It's not surprising." A brief pause. "What's interesting is the younger sister, Evelyn. She stayed close to Clara but said little. Watched people. Watched you."
He remembered. The ballroom's crush of voices, glasses clinking, chandeliers blazing light over polished marble. And her—head tilted slightly, lips parted as though caught between questions she couldn't voice.
"You noticed," Elise said.
"I noticed."
She reached into her bag again and produced a cream-colored envelope. "The Rothwells are hosting a charity art exhibition next Friday. Smaller than last night—under a hundred guests. The kind of place where one conversation can last an hour without interruption."
He took the invitation, running his thumb over the embossed lettering. "Both sisters will be there?"
"Yes. Clara's name is on the donor list. Evelyn's is not, which means she'll be there in the background. Easier to approach… if you're looking for something."
"I'm looking for everything," he said.
Elise's smile was quick and knowing. "Shall I have you added to the guest list?"
"No," Damien said, setting the card down. "I'll be invited."
When she was gone, the silence returned, thicker now.
Damien moved back to the window. His reflection looked back at him—measured, unreadable. He thought again of Evelyn Rothwell, the way her gaze had lingered. Not like a stranger.
And if she wasn't a stranger, then she was something else entirely.
The question was whether she was a danger… or an opportunity.
Either way, he intended to find out.