Damon's POV
I stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, Manhattan spread out like a glittering kingdom below. But today, it felt less like a kingdom and more like a minefield.
The morning's headlines still lingered in my head—speculative garbage, nothing concrete yet—but the whispers were getting louder.
Behind me, the quiet swish of fabric told me Aria had shifted on the sofa. I turned. Her arms wrapped protectively around her belly, her features taut with dread.
The child—no, children—she carried weren't just ours anymore. They were the subject of cruel, baseless speculation.
My phone buzzed.
Godwin: "Downstairs. Need to talk. Like men."
I didn't need to read it twice. Every line of that message reeked of misplaced bravado and Celeste's venom. Godwin Thompson didn't want truth—he wanted relevance. Or he was being used. Again.
I turned to Aria. Her gaze met mine—wide, wounded, brave.
