The live band played something loud and cheerful, but in the dim lighting of the bar, Isabella felt as if she were sitting in silence—like sound couldn't reach her heart anymore. She stared at the swirling amber liquid in her glass, the ice clinking against the sides every time her fingers trembled.
"Isabella, what happened?" Emily asked, leaning closer. Her brows furrowed in concern, but Isabella ignored the question. Instead, she raised her glass high and shouted toward the bar counter.
"Damien! Another one! Your wife wants more wine!"
The long-haired man polishing a glass paused mid-motion. He threw her a rude, unimpressed glance. "Drunkard. Who wants a wife like you?"
Most people would've flinched hearing the infamous Damien speak like that. He wasn't just any man—he was Damien. Handsome, ruthless, the underground king of Averton City, owner of the city's most profitable nightclub. For ten years, no one in the black or white worlds dared provoke him.
