She joked with the quiet security guard all night, then the entire ballroom went silent when he revealed the mansion was his

The silence in the grand ballroom was heavy enough to suffocate a lesser mortal.

Claire Bennett stood frozen, her eyes squeezed shut as she mentally reviewed every single insult, sarcastic remark, and condescending joke she had hurled at the most powerful, reclusive billionaire on the East Coast over the past two hours.

*Rent-a-cop.*

*Industrial floor wax.*

*Emotional range of a parking meter.*

She opened one eye and peeked up at him. Damon Vale was still looking down at her, his expression a baffling mix of severe authority and an unmistakable, hidden amusement.

“So,” Claire began, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness as she carefully adjusted the strap of her dress. “To review: I thought you were a hired guard, I insulted your fashion choices, I critiqued your catering, and then I accidentally accused one of your pompous guests of being a pickpocket while you watched the entire farce unfold without saying a single word to correct me.”

“You missed a spot,” Damon murmured, his deep voice rich with dry humor.

“Oh, enlighten me.”

“You also told me to blink twice if I was being held hostage by a catering syndicate.”

Claire winced. “Right. That. Look, Mr. Vale—if that is your real name and not an elaborate alias for a high-end mafia boss—I need to go find my cousin Madison, apologize for ruining her night, and walk very, very quickly off your property before you decide to have me fed to your guard dogs.”

She turned sharply on her heel, intending to make a swift and dignified exit.

“She’s not here.”

Claire stopped dead in her tracks and turned back around. “Excuse me?”

“Your cousin,” Damon said, crossing his broad arms over his chest. “Madison. About twenty minutes before the medical emergency, she was approached by a junior partner from a venture capital firm. They left through the side garden doors. In a Porsche.”

Claire’s jaw dropped. “She left me? At a billionaire’s murder-mansion? Without a ride?!”

“It’s a historic estate, not a murder-mansion,” Damon corrected smoothly, though a faint smile touched his lips. “And as for a ride, you don’t need to worry about walking. My drivers are instructed to take care of my guests. Or, in this case, the woman who just saved Arthur Sterling’s ungrateful life.”

At the mention of his name, Arthur Sterling—who was still hovering nervously a few yards away, flanked by two stone-faced security guards—flinched visibly. He opened his mouth as if to apologize, but one single, icy glance from Damon Vale made the developer snap his mouth shut and scurry backward into the crowd like a frightened rat.

“I don’t want your charity rides, Mr. Vale,” Claire said stiffly, though the thought of walking five miles down the dark, winding estate road in three-inch heels made her soul weep. “I’ll call an Uber.”

“Cell service is jammed within a three-mile radius of the estate during private functions,” Damon replied casually, pulling out a sleek, matte-black smartphone to check the time. “Good luck getting a signal out here in the hills.”

Claire glared at him, absolutely certain he was enjoying this far too much. “You are a menace.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“I can imagine. By people with more money and less spine.”

Before Damon could respond, the blonde woman who had previously accused Claire of staging the heart attack stormed back over, her face flushed with indignation.

“Damon,” she purred, her voice dripping with honeyed desperation as she latched onto his arm. “There you are. Everyone is talking about this dreadful scene. This… this nurse person has completely disrupted the entire charity gala. Surely you’re going to have her escorted off the grounds immediately?”

Claire raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms. *Oh, this ought to be good.*

Damon looked down at the blonde woman clinging to his arm. His expression hardened instantly, the warmth of amusement vanishing as if it had never been there.

“Victoria,” Damon said, his voice dropping to a temperature that could freeze liquid nitrogen. “Remove your hand from my arm.”

The blonde—Victoria Vance, daughter of shipping magnate Harrison Vance—stiffened, her blue eyes widening in shock. “Damon, darling, what—?”

“You accused a medical professional of staging a cardiac arrest for attention,” Damon continued, his voice echoing cleanly through the quieted room. “And then you stood by while one of my guests physically assaulted her. In my house. If anyone is being escorted off these grounds, Victoria, it’s you. Permanently.”

Victoria’s face went from pale to a brilliant, furious crimson. She opened and closed her mouth like a stranded fish, cast one venomous glare at Claire, and whipped around, storming out of the ballroom with her head held high.

Claire watched her go, whistling softly through her teeth. “Remind me never to get on your bad side, Mr. Vale. That was colder than liquid nitrogen.”

“I have zero tolerance for malice,” Damon said simply. He turned his full, intense focus back to Claire. “Now. Come with me.”

“Wh-where?” Claire backed up a step, eyeing him suspiciously. “I told you, I’m not interested in a tour of your dungeon.”

“My office,” Damon corrected, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “You have glass embedded in the hem of your dress from where Sterling broke that scotch glass, and your wrist is turning a rather impressive shade of bruised violet. Let me get you a proper ice pack and a first-aid kit.”

Claire looked down. Sure enough, tiny shards of crystal glittered along the navy fabric near her ankles. She sighed, knowing she had lost this round.