Inside the Lancaster Gala, the air was heady with wealth, deception and champagne. 

Damien Cross stood by the bar, his tailored black suit like a second skin, his icy blue gaze sweeping the room like a predator looking for prey.

This was it. The last act of a plan that had taken him 10 years to put in place.

Richard Lancaster, the man who had ripped his family apart, stood in the middle of the room like an emperor among his subjects. 

Damien felt his blood boil when he thought about the arrogant way the older man carried himself, the way he held court with politicians and billionaires.

Tonight, Lancaster did not know his empire was already aflame.

Damien sipped at his whiskey, the slow burn in his throat anchoring him. He had been patient. Each deliberate step had brought him to this moment. 

Tomorrow Lancaster Corp would be his and then, soon after, Richard Lancaster would have nothing.

But then — a disruption of the plan.

A woman.

Standing alone near the grand piano, she was a study of contradictions. Elegant but detached. Gorgeous but apparently unaware of it. Isla Moreau.

Damien knew who she was — Lancaster's illegitimate daughter, the one he never took credit for. 

She was never in his initial plan. She wasn't a threat. 

Just a cog in the machinery of human power and destruction.

But when her eyes looked up and found his, something he hadn't expected flickered in his chest.

Interest.

A complication.

She cocked her head slightly as though reading him the same way he had read thousands of opponents in the past.

Then she turns, blowing him off like he's nothing.

And that— that made her dangerous.

Damien didn't like surprises. But something told him Isla Moreau was about to be one.

And for the first time in years, Damien Cross found himself changing his plans.

Because now he wanted her, too.

***

Damien hadn't intended to get involved tonight. His attendance at the gala was symbolic — the wolf in the sheep's fold, lurking, watching, waiting. 

The trap was already laid. But now, she had his attention.

Isla Moreau.

She wasn't one of those women who latched onto their father's power, exalting their privilege as if it were a birthright. 

No, Isla had been cloned outside the fanciful grandeur of the Lancaster name. That intrigued him.

Yet intrigue could be deadly.

Damien put down his glass and made a play.

He walked across the ballroom with slow precision, the low hum of conversations fading into the soft notes of the grand piano. 

Isla, apparently oblivious, raised a flute of champagne to her lips, her dark eyes dinning around the room with the slightest touch of disinterest.

But Damien could see the tension in her posture. She was aware of him.

He moved next to her, near enough that she could detect that he was there but not enough that he would catch her off guard.

"Odd," he said, seeing her pivot toward him, one eyebrow raised with interest.

She did not immediately respond. She studied him first. The average woman would have turned crimson under his gaze, gumbled over her words. 

But Isla Moreau? She took her time.

"Strange?" O.K., she echoed at last, her voice smooth and chill.

Damien let the corner of his mouth curl up in the ghost of a smirk. 

"You don't appear to be from here."

That got a reaction. A small, amused exhale. "And you do?"

Smart. Quick. He liked that.

"I belong wherever I choose to belong," he responded.

Her eyes flicked over him—measuring, calculating. 

"Then I'll take it you're one of my father's Associates."

Interesting. She didn't sound happy about that.

"I wouldn't do that to myself." He fished his own glass from the passing waiter and raised it slightly in mock salute. 

"Damien Cross."

Realization flickered in her face, but she covered it expertly. 

"The Damien Cross?" she mused. 

"The guy who's been gobbling up companies like they're chess pieces?"

Damien made a slight chuckle. "I like to think of them as … acquisitions."

She gave an unimpressed, unfrightened hum. "And what piece are you after tonight?"

You.That thought had arrived uninvited, but Damien banished it. He was not here for distractions.

"I haven't made up my mind," he said smoothly.

A waiter came with a new tray of champagne and Isla placed her untouched glass down and turned to him completely. 

"Well, Mr. Cross, allow me to give you a little advice — choose wisely."

With that, she turned and walked away, fading into the sea of gowns and tuxedos.

Damien followed her until she was out of sight, a slow, dark smile curling at his lips.

She was a complication, yes. But often, the best moves in chess were the ones nobody saw coming.

And Isla Moreau?

She had only recently become his latest obsession.