The funeral had been a somber affair held at the sprawling Allard estate, its cold grandeur casting long shadows over the gathered mourners. Damon had lingered near the edges of the crowd, watching as Celeste slipped back into the gathering, her expression unreadable. The tension from their brief conversation still hung in the air.
As the crowd began to thin, Damon made his way to the front of the estate, where the family's sleek black car waited. The estate driver stood by, the usual stoic expression etched on his face.
"Back to the house, Mr. Damon?" the driver asked as he opened the car door.
Damon paused, his hand resting on the roof of the car as he looked out over the estate. The imposing mansion loomed behind him, its high windows catching the muted glow of the overcast afternoon. For a brief moment, the weight of the day threatened to settle on him, but he pushed it aside with a faint smirk.
"No," he said, sliding into the back seat. "Take me to The Crimson Room. I could use a drink."
The driver hesitated for a moment before nodding. "Very well, sir."
The car wound its way down the estate's long, gravel driveway and out onto the main road, leaving the Allard legacy and its endless obligations behind—at least for now. Damon leaned back against the leather seat, the soft hum of the car a steady backdrop to his thoughts. Celeste and Nicolas were hiding something; he could feel it. But if there was one thing he'd learned from years of navigating both his family's games and his own, it was that patience was key.
For now, he had another ally to enlist.
When they arrived at The Crimson Room, the club's signature crimson drapery and golden lights stood in stark contrast to the gray skies of the day. Damon stepped out, adjusting his jacket as he gave the driver a nod. "Wait for me. I won't be long."
Inside, the atmosphere was a welcome change. Low music pulsed in the background, a blend of sophistication and indulgence filling the air. His eyes scanned the room until they landed on her—a striking woman of asian descent with jet-black hair, seated in a corner booth, a glass of something amber in her hand.
"Zuki," Damon said with a slow grin as he approached, sliding into the seat across from her. "Still making this place look good, I see. They should pay you just for showing up."
Zuki raised an eyebrow, her lips quirking into a smirk. "And here I thought you'd forgotten all about me, Damon. You've been gone so long I was starting to think you'd joined a monastery."
He chuckled, leaning back in his seat. "A monastery wouldn't have me. I'm far too charming for vows of silence."
"Charming?" she teased, swirling her drink. "I think the word you're looking for is 'troublesome.'"
"Trouble's always been more fun, hasn't it?" Damon shot back. He flagged down a server with a smooth gesture and ordered himself a drink. "Speaking of which, you're still in the business of making things happen, right?"
"Depends," Zuki said, narrowing her eyes playfully. "What kind of 'things' are we talking about? And why do I feel like I'm going to regret this conversation already?"
"Oh, come on," Damon replied, leaning forward. "You know you missed me. Don't play hard to get. It's unbecoming."
"Unbecoming?" She laughed softly, setting her glass down. "You've got some nerve, Allard. Weren't you the one who left without so much as a goodbye?"
"I didn't leave without saying goodbye," Damon protested, his tone mock-offended. "I left dramatically to create mystery. It's an entirely different thing."
Zuki shook her head, though a genuine smile tugged at her lips. "You're impossible. So, what do you want, Damon? You don't just pop up in my world without a reason."
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping slightly. "Let's just say I'm doing a little… digging. Family business, and all that. You've always been good at finding things people don't want found."
"Family business?" Her playful demeanor shifted slightly, her eyes sharpening. "Let me guess....this has something to do with your brother's death?"
Damon's smirk faded just a touch. "Let's not ruin the mood with unpleasant details. Suffice it to say, I might need a favor. And don't pretend you're not curious."
Zuki studied him for a moment, then shrugged. "Fine. But you owe me."
"I always owe you," he said smoothly, raising his newly delivered glass in a toast. "But somehow, you keep coming back for more. Admit it—you enjoy my company."
"I enjoy watching you squirm when I call in those favors," she shot back with a wicked grin.
Damon laughed, the tension easing as he took a sip of his drink. "Fair enough. Let's keep it interesting then."
The Allard estate was eerily silent when Damon returned, the vast halls cloaked in shadows. He dismissed the driver with a nod, stepping inside and making his way to the drawing room. The faint echo of his footsteps against marble floors was the only sound as he loosened his tie, feeling the weight of the night settling on his shoulders.
In the drawing room, a fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting warm, flickering light across the dark wood paneling and antique furniture. Damon poured himself a glass of scotch from the decanter on the side table, the liquid catching the firelight as he sank into one of the armchairs.
The strains of a piano concerto drifted through the air, emanating from the old record player in the corner. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the music wrap around him, its familiar melody soothing the storm brewing in his thoughts.
His mind, however, refused to rest.
Zuki.
Her voice still echoed in his head—sharp, teasing, layered with unspoken meaning. Damon swirled the scotch in his glass, his gaze fixed on the fire. She hadn't changed much; the same quick wit, the same disarming charm, and the same way of pulling him into her orbit without even trying. Their banter tonight had been a dance, as it always was, each word chosen with care, each look laden with subtext.
But beneath her playful exterior, Damon could sense her curiosity. Zuki knew more than she let on—she always did. And though she'd agreed to help him, he knew her involvement came with risks. Trusting her was like holding fire in his hands; the warmth was intoxicating, but the burn was inevitable.
The chime of his phone broke his reverie. Damon picked it up from the table beside him, his lips twitching into a faint smirk at the message lighting up the screen.
Zuki: Don't get too comfortable, Damon. This won't be easy. But you knew that already, didn't you?
He let out a soft laugh, typing back quickly.
Damon: If it were easy, it wouldn't be interesting. Keep me posted.
Another message followed almost immediately.
Zuki: Oh, I will. Try not to miss me too much.
Damon chuckled, shaking his head as he set the phone down. Typical Zuki—always leaving him guessing, always with the upper hand. But that was part of her charm.
Taking a sip of his scotch, Damon picked up a worn book from the table—a collection of essays on power and influence that he'd read countless times. He opened it to a random page, his eyes scanning the words, though his mind remained restless.
The music swelled, filling the room with its haunting beauty, and Damon let it carry him for a moment. His thoughts drifted to Alexander, to Celeste and Nicolas, to the tangled web of secrets that seemed to tighten around him with every step he took.
The fire crackled, the flames dancing in the hearth as the night stretched on. Damon leaned back in the chair, the book resting in his lap, and let the flickering light and the strains of the piano concerto pull him deeper into his thoughts.
After this weekend, chaos would descend upon his life, and he needed to steel himself for the storm ahead.