Ann waited until Damian's breathing evened out beside her. His arm was draped across her stomach like an iron chain. The soft tick of the grand clock on the wall was the only sound in the huge, dark bedroom.
Every heartbeat felt like thunder in her ears.
She lay still for what felt like hours, staring at the ceiling. Her fingers brushed the cold metal of the key hidden in the pocket of her silk robe. It pressed against her hip, a small, sharp promise of freedom.
Slowly, carefully, she lifted Damian's arm off her waist and slid out from under him. He stirred — once, twice — but didn't wake. Ann held her breath until he settled back into sleep.
She stepped onto the cold marble floor, her bare feet silent as shadows. She didn't dare turn on the lights. She moved by memory — the shape of the hallway, the creak of the last floorboard before the study door.
Outside the locked study, she paused. Her palm was sweaty around the key. She could feel her pulse in her throat. One twist of her wrist, and she'd be inside again.
But this time, she wasn't searching for secrets. This time, she was searching for leverage — anything she could use to buy her freedom.
The lock clicked open. The heavy door creaked — louder than she'd hoped. She froze, counting to ten, praying Damian wouldn't wake. Silence. She slipped inside and shut the door behind her.
The study smelled faintly of leather and cologne. The desk lamp was still on, spilling a pool of light over stacks of files. She stepped closer, scanning pages filled with names she didn't recognize — offshore accounts, coded transactions, hidden threats.
And then her fingers found it — a small black notebook tucked under a pile of folders. She flipped it open. Inside were pages of handwritten notes: transactions, bribes, the kind of secrets that could destroy Damian's empire if they fell into the wrong hands.
Or the right ones.
Ann's fingers trembled as she traced her name at the top of one page — Ann Whitewood: leverage. Under it were details she didn't even know about herself. Her father's old debts. Her mother's hidden illness. Things Damian had known before he ever put a ring on her finger.
A cold rage settled in her chest. She closed the notebook and pressed it to her chest. This was her weapon. Her way out.
She turned to leave — but the door clicked before she even reached it.
Damian stood there, shirtless, his eyes dark with something between rage and betrayal.
"Going somewhere, Ann?"
Her breath caught. She held the notebook tighter. "Don't come closer."
He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click that made her stomach twist. "You think you can run from me?"
She lifted her chin, trying to hide how badly her hands were shaking. "If you touch me, everyone will know what's in this book."
Damian's jaw tightened, but he didn't move closer. His eyes dropped to the notebook — then back to her face. A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips. "You've grown brave, wife."
"Don't call me that," she snapped. "Not after what you did to me."
He laughed — a low, soft sound that made her skin crawl. "You still don't understand, do you, Ann? I made you mine because you were the only one I couldn't buy. And now… you think you hold the power?"
She backed toward the door, pressing the notebook to her chest like a shield. "Stay back, Damian."
He didn't listen. He moved closer — slow, deliberate steps that pinned her in place. When he was inches away, he leaned in, his breath warm against her ear.
"You want freedom?" he whispered. "Then run. But know this — if you run, I will hunt you. And when I find you, I'll remind you why you wear my ring."
Before she could react, his hand closed around her wrist, pulling her flush against him. His mouth crashed onto hers — a kiss that tasted like a warning and a promise all at once. When he pulled back, his eyes were fire and ice.
"Run, Ann. Let's see how far you get."