Chapter 2

The world tilted on its axis. A roaring sound filled my ears, like the rush of a tidal wave about to pull me under. For seven years, I had been his. His lover, his operative, his shadow. I had taken bullets for him. I had lied for him. I had bled for him. And now, he was asking me to give my body to another man, not for power, not for territory, but to win the heart of another woman.

"Brooklyn is... sensitive," Damian continued, oblivious to the gaping wound he had just torn open in my chest. "She doesn't like the world I live in. She doesn't like men like me."

He was pacing now, a caged tiger in his own luxurious prison. "The plan is simple. You get close to Earl. You make him want you. At the Mckinney's annual charity gala, you lure him into a suite. I'll make sure the press is there. I'll make sure Brooklyn is there to see it all firsthand."

Brooklyn Mckinney. I knew her name, of course. Everyone in Veridian City did. She was the daughter of the powerful Mckinney family, a clan with old money and political influence that even Damian had to tread carefully around. She was his obsession, the one prize he couldn't seem to conquer.

And she was infatuated with Earl Reid. Utterly, foolishly infatuated.

The irony was a bitter pill. For years, Damian had been fighting a two-front war: one against Earl for control of the city's underworld, and another, more personal one, for Brooklyn's affection. Brooklyn, in her gilded naivete, saw Earl as a dashing, mysterious figure, a romantic anti-hero. She was blind to Damian's machinations, seeing him only as a crude, possessive man she wanted nothing to do with.

I remembered the night it all started, the night Damian "rescued" me. It wasn't a coincidence.

He and Brooklyn had had a vicious fight just hours earlier. He'd orchestrated a hostile takeover of a rival company, a move that had inadvertently hurt the Mckinney family's portfolio. He had done it to prove his power, to show her he was a man worthy of her. He had laid the corporate world at her feet.

She had slapped him. In public, at a restaurant.

He' d come back to the syndicate's headquarters that night, his face like a thundercloud, looking for something to break.

And he had found me.

He hadn' t saved me out of kindness. He'd saved me as an act of defiance. He'd paraded me in front of Brooklyn, a beautiful, obedient creature completely under his control, a living trophy to spite her. He was showing her what she was missing, what she could have: a powerful man who could give a woman the world.

From that day on, I became his constant companion.

He never hid me. He took me everywhere, adorning me with jewels and designer clothes. He bought me a penthouse, a sports car, anything I could possibly want.

He was showing Brooklyn, "See? This is how I treat my women. This could be you."

I remembered a party, early on. A drunk business associate had made a crude joke at my expense, his hand lingering too long on my lower back. Damian hadn't said a word. He' d simply smiled, led the man outside, and methodically broken every finger on his right hand.

He'd come back inside, wiping his knuckles with a silk handkerchief, and announced to the terrified room, "No one touches what's mine."

The city learned quickly. I was Damian Benjamin's woman. To touch me was to invite his wrath. I was safe. I was protected.

I was a possession.

And I, blinded by gratitude and the intoxicating illusion of love, told myself it was more. I told myself his jealousy was passion. I told myself his possessiveness was a sign of his deep feelings for me. I collected every small moment of perceived tenderness, every rare, unguarded smile, and built a fantasy fortress around my heart.

Now, standing in the cold light of his bedroom, that fortress crumbled to dust.

I looked at him, really looked at him, past the handsome mask and the carefully constructed facade. For the first time, I saw the ice in the depths of his eyes. The same cold, calculating look he gave his enemies before he destroyed them.

There was no love there. There never had been.

A single, silent tear tracked a path down my cheek. My seven-year dream, my entire world, had been a lie. A cruel, elaborate joke.

The hope I had clung to for so long died a quiet, painful death.

"I'll do it," I heard myself say, my voice a hollow echo of what it once was.