The rhythmic hum of the SUV's engine was the only sound masking the frantic, rabbit-like beating of Ash's heart.
The heavy rain outside had blurred the windows, but even through the distorted glass, the transition of the city was violently obvious. The claustrophobic, rotting smell of Sector 9 had vanished, replaced by the sterile, expensive scent of pine and ocean breeze.
Ash kept her chin buried deep in the collar of Damien's oversized, soaked suit jacket. Her trembling fingers maintained a white-knuckled grip on the lapels, deliberately pulling the dark fabric up to shadow the left side of her forehead.
The clean patch. The terrifying, centimeter-long stretch of flawless, milky skin where the rain had washed away her hideous disguise. If Damien looked closely—if the harsh interior lights of the car caught that single, glowing patch of porcelain—she was a dead woman.
The tires finally crunched over crushed white gravel. The vehicle glided to a sickeningly smooth halt.
"We're here, Boss," Leo murmured from the front seat, his voice devoid of the adrenaline that had fueled him just twenty minutes prior.
The heavy door was pulled open from the outside by a man in a black uniform holding a massive umbrella. Damien didn't wait. He stepped out into the storm, the rain slicking his dark hair back, accentuating the brutal, sharp angles of his scarred face. He looked entirely in his element—a king returning to his dark castle.
He didn't offer her a hand. He merely turned, his stormy grey eyes locking onto her huddled form in the backseat.
"Out," he ordered. A single, quiet syllable that carried the weight of a physical blow.
Ash swallowed the lump of terror in her throat. She slid across the leather seat, her bare, mud-caked feet hitting the pristine stone driveway. The sheer scale of the estate before her made her breath catch. It wasn't just a house; it was a sprawling, brutalist fortress of glass, black steel, and pale marble, guarded by towering iron gates. It was cold. It was terrifying.
It was a gilded cage.
Damien didn't check to see if she was following. He knew she was. The sheer, suffocating gravity of his presence pulled her along in his wake as he strode up the wide stone steps and through the massive double doors.
The moment Ash stepped into the foyer, the blinding light of a multi-tiered crystal chandelier hit her. She flinched, instinctively keeping her head bowed, staring at the floor.
It was a mistake. Looking down only magnified her shame. Beneath her filthy, bruised feet lay a flawless, white Persian rug. Droplets of foul-smelling, black muddy water dripped from the hem of her oversized rags, staining the immaculate fibers. She looked like a decaying rat that had been dragged into a palace.
"Damien?"
The voice that echoed down the sweeping marble staircase was sharp, melodic, and dripping with aristocratic venom.
Ash's shoulders hiked up to her ears.
A woman descended the stairs, her heels clicking rhythmically against the marble. She was stunning—tall, possessing the same sharp, striking bone structure as Damien, but with icy blonde hair and wearing a blood-red silk slip dress. She held a crystal glass of amber liquid in one perfectly manicured hand.
Camilla Vance. The Devil's sister.
"I heard the gunfire over the comms," Camilla said, her tone laced with mild boredom rather than actual concern. "I assumed you'd bring home a few bodies, brother. Not..."
Camilla paused on the bottom step. Her icy blue eyes landed on the shivering, soot-covered girl standing in the center of their pristine foyer. The bored expression on Camilla's face shattered, instantly replaced by sheer, unadulterated revulsion.
Her nose crinkled in disgust. "What in God's name is that?"
Ash shrank back, pulling Damien's jacket tighter. She was used to insults. She had lived her entire life under the weight of people's disgust. But under the blinding lights of this mansion, the humiliation burned like acid.
Damien didn't even look at his sister. He handed his empty gun holster to a waiting servant. "She stays here."
Camilla let out a harsh, incredulous laugh. "Excuse me? Damien, it smells like an open sewer! Look at the rug! It's tracking black grease and mud all over the marble. Did you run over a beggar and feel guilty?"
"Careful, Camilla," Damien's voice dropped. It wasn't a shout. It was a deadly, vibrating low frequency that instantly sucked the air out of the massive room.
Camilla stiffened, her knuckles turning white around her glass. She knew better than to cross him, but her aristocratic pride couldn't stomach the sight of the filthy slum girl in her sanctuary.
"It's a health hazard, Damien. It looks diseased," Camilla spat, though she took a subtle step back. "At least tell me you're going to throw it in the basement until you decide what to do with it."
Damien slowly turned his head. His eyes, devoid of any warmth, pinned his sister to the spot. "I don't recall asking for your decorative opinion on my house. Go back to your drink."
He dismissed her with brutal efficiency. Dismissed the insult. Dismissed the drama.
He then turned his penetrating gaze down to Ash. She was vibrating like a leaf in a hurricane, her head bowed so low her chin touched her chest. She was pathetically small, yet... the memory of those devastating hazel eyes flashing in the rain still burned hot in his chest. A muscle feathered in his tight jaw.
"Mrs. Hughes," Damien called out.
An older, severe-looking woman in a crisp uniform materialized from the hallway. "Yes, Mr. Vance?"
Damien's eyes never left Ash's trembling form. He watched the way she desperately clutched the collar of his jacket, hiding her face.
"Take her to the East Wing guest suite," Damien commanded, his voice echoing off the marble walls, sealing Ash's fate. "Burn those filthy rags she's wearing. And throw her in the shower. Scrub every inch of that disgusting black grime off her."
Ash's heart stopped.
Scrub the grime off. No. Pure, blind panic overrode her fear of the mafia boss. If they washed her, the soot would disappear. The ugly, repulsive 'Ash' would be washed down the drain, and 'Aria'—the breathtaking, flawless girl with skin like moonlight—would be exposed in the middle of a mafia stronghold. A man who murdered people for lying would realize she was the biggest deception of all.
"No!" The word ripped from Ash's throat before she could stop it.
The entire foyer went dead silent. Even Camilla looked genuinely shocked that the filthy rat had spoken back.
Ash took a desperate step backward, her bare feet slipping slightly on the wet marble. "Please. I—I can't. Let me stay dirty. Put me in the basement, put me anywhere, just... don't wash it off. Please."
Damien's eyes narrowed into dangerous, calculating slits. The air around him turned suffocatingly heavy. He closed the distance between them in two long, predatory strides, invading her space until she was forced to lean back to avoid touching him.
He reached out. This time, he didn't brush her cheek. He clamped his large, warm fingers around her delicate chin, forcing her head up.
Ash squeezed her eyes shut, terrified he would spot the clean patch of skin near her temple.
Damien stared at her soot-stained face, his thumb resting dangerously close to her trembling lower lip. Why was she fighting a warm shower? Why was she clinging to the filth like it was a shield? The mafia boss in him smelled a secret. And Damien Vance loved ripping secrets out of people.
He leaned down, his lips brushing mere inches from her ear. The smell of cedarwood and danger invaded her senses.
"You will go upstairs, little bird," Damien whispered, his voice a dark, velvet threat. "And you will let them wash you. Because if you fight them..."
His thumb slowly dragged across her jawline, smearing the black soot.
"...I will come up there, strip you down, and scrub you clean myself. Do we understand each other?"