Twenty-two powerful guests watched me slap the most feared man in Chicago after he grabbed my wrist and ordered me to sit beside him. Everyone thought I had just humiliated Damian Romano in his own mansion, but two seconds later, a bullet ripped through the chair meant for me, and I realized his terrifying behavior was the only reason I was still breathing.

The east wing of the Romano estate felt entirely disconnected from the rest of the mansion. The corridors were narrower, paneled in dark, aged mahogany, and guarded by armed men who nodded respectfully as I approached Damian’s heavy double doors.

My heart slammed against my ribs like a trapped bird. Every step felt heavier than the last. When I reached the threshold, the door was already slightly ajar, a warm sliver of golden light spilling out onto the Persian runner.

I raised my hand and tapped softly against the wood.

“Come in, Harper.”

His voice was deep, smooth, and devoid of the iron-clad authority he wore in public.

I pushed the door open and stepped inside. The study was vast, lined with towering floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a crackling stone fireplace, and a massive oak desk covered in leather-bound ledgers and maps of the city. Damian stood by the window, a crystal tumbler of amber liquor half-held in his hand. He had discarded his suit jacket; his crisp white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, exposing corded muscles and faint, pale scars that whispered of a violent past.

He didn't turn around immediately. He stared out into the pitch-black woods beyond the glass.

“I saw the footage,” I began, my voice trembling. I wrapped my arms tightly around myself, suddenly feeling hopelessly small in the cavernous room. “Gabriel showed me.”

Damian took a slow sip of his drink before finally turning to face me. The overhead light caught the faint, reddish impression of my hand still visible along his jawline. A wave of intense shame washed over me, hot and dizzying.

“I’m sorry,” I choked out, a tear finally spilling over my lashes. “I didn’t know. When you grabbed my wrist... it felt like... I was back in Milwaukee. With my ex. He used to—he didn't let me move, and my instincts just—I hit you. In front of everyone. After everything you did to save my life, I humiliated you.”

Damian went completely still. The dark intensity in his eyes softened, replaced by a profound, piercing focus that seemed to strip away every defense I had spent six years building.

He set his glass down on a mahogany side table with a soft clink and walked toward me.

I didn't back away, though every survival instinct told me to put distance between us. I stood my ground, my chin trembling.

Damian stopped just inches away. I had to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. He raised his hand—the very hand I had struck—and slowly, hesitantly, as if testing whether I would flinch, he reached out. His fingers brushed lightly against my cheek, wiping away the single tear with shocking tenderness.

“You have nothing to apologize for, Harper,” he murmured, his voice rumbling low in his chest. “You reacted like someone who has survived a monster. And as for my pride... letting a room full of arrogant snobs think I got slapped by a maid is a small price to pay for keeping you breathing.”