The chill outside the Langford Hotel felt sharper than before. Sienna Blake stepped into the night, her nerves still rattled from the confrontation. The rage, the lies, the claws of a bitter wife—if not for those anonymous video files, she'd have been publicly shredded.
But what haunted her more was the question: Who sent them? Who was watching her back?
She didn't hesitate. She tapped the number from the mystery message. It rang once.
Then came the voice—low, warm, unmistakably calm:
"I'm parked outside."
Sienna turned her head. Standing by a sleek black car under a streetlamp was a man with the kind of presence that stopped time. Every line of his tailored coat, every glance of his steel-gray eyes, was controlled power.
Damien Cross.
He walked toward her, the night wrapping around him like a tailored cloak. "Are you all right?" he asked, tone gentle but firm.
Sienna took a breath and rubbed her cheeks, trying to cool the flush. "Did you send me those videos?"
A rare smile tugged at Damien's otherwise impassive face. "Couldn't let my wife's name be dragged through the mud."
Wife?
Sienna blinked rapidly. Did this walking iceberg just call her his wife like it was the most natural thing in the world? And smile while doing it?
"I saw the segment on Design Weekly," he continued. "Didn't doubt you for a second."
"That's… not a very good reason," she said, stunned.
Damien tilted his head. "It's reason enough. I trust my wife."
The heat returned to her cheeks.
"But those videos… how did you get them?" she asked. "They were taken in completely private settings."
He glanced down the street before replying, "I called in a favor."
"Then I owe your friend a huge thank-you."
Damien's jaw tightened just a little. "You don't owe him anything."
Sienna raised a brow. "Why's that?"
He didn't blink. "Because you're his sister-in-law."
Sienna: "…"
Right. Perks of being the fake wife of a man with enough pull to call in surveillance footage like it was room service.
Back inside the Langford Hotel, Camille Blake was practically spitting fire. The entire event had turned into a circus, and she'd been cast as the clown. Every sideways glance from the guests was a jab to her pride.
When she stormed out, she wasn't expecting to see her again. And definitely not wrapped in the arms of a man who looked like a Wall Street James Bond.
Sienna stood by the curb with Damien, framed by city lights.
Camille's stomach turned. How does she keep doing this? First Julian Monroe, now this impossibly refined man?
Fueled by bitterness, she stalked over, voice dripping poison. "Another conquest already? Or is this tonight's groom?"
Sienna stiffened. Damien casually stepped in between them.
But Camille wasn't backing off. "Bet you haven't told him who you really are. How about I do it for you?"
"Camille—" Sienna started, but she didn't get far.
"This one?" Camille said to Damien, her tone gleeful and vicious. "She was seducing her future brother-in-law at fifteen. Sent away to America after that scandal. You really think someone like her is clean? She's a disease risk."
Damien's eyes narrowed, his face unreadable. For a moment, Sienna's stomach dropped.
Then he spoke, deadpan:
"You're right. I am worried she might've been exposed."
Camille grinned in triumph. "Finally, a man with sense."
Then he added coldly:
"If you're bitten by a mad dog, a rabies shot is non-negotiable."
Camille's smile shattered. "What did you just call me?"
Sienna turned, trying to pull Damien away. "Forget it. She's not worth it."
But Camille blocked their path again. "He should know—she's already married!"
Damien didn't miss a beat. "I'm aware."
Camille's smug expression faltered.
"I'm her husband," Damien said calmly, then led Sienna to the car without another glance back.
Camille stood frozen, the implication sinking in. That man... is the one Sienna married?
She barely heard the doorman asking if she needed a ride. Her mind was too loud.
No. No way. That man couldn't be real. He had to be broke. Or fake. Or worse—a gigolo.
That had to be it. A hooker and a whore. Perfect pair.
Once in the car, Sienna leaned back and exhaled. "Sorry you had to see that," she said quietly.
She hadn't meant to drag Damien into her mess. Their "marriage" was just a shield—against her father, against the public. Not this.
But Damien simply said, "You're my wife. Your fight is mine."
She turned to look at him. "What Camille said… it's not true. About the brother-in-law thing. He tried to force himself on me. At her engagement party. I overreacted. Kicked him so hard he needed surgery."
Damien turned to her. "And?"
"And… the family blamed me for it. Shipped me off. Said I was a stain."
He didn't say anything right away. Then, gently, he reached over and took her hand.
"You did the right thing," he said simply.
Her throat tightened. She blinked fast, surprised by the burn behind her eyes.
Changing the subject, Damien asked, "You free this afternoon?"
"I guess." She looked at him warily. "Why?"
"We're moving."
"Moving?!"
Damien shrugged. "I'm not sleeping on a futon again."
Her apartment was small. Still, she hadn't expected this.
By early evening, she was standing in front of a two-story townhouse tucked behind Central Park. Brick façade. Ivy-covered. Quiet street.
She stared in disbelief. "This must cost a fortune…"
Damien unlocked the door, unfazed.
"Are you—are you secretly some kind of trust fund baby?" she asked.
He paused. "No."
She frowned. "Look, I get the whole masculine pride thing, but you don't have to pretend you're rich. Let's just find a normal apartment."
He didn't bother correcting her. "A friend's out of the country. We're house-sitting. No rent."
Sienna stared. "Your friends are amazing."
Damien only smiled faintly as he stepped inside.