Damien Cross didn't believe in coincidences.
He made every move with forethought, every interaction very deliberate. And Isla Moreau? She was no exception.
And as he left her, weaving through the crowd of Manhattan's elite, his mind was already racing with ideas.
She was not another pawn in this game. She was a wildcard.
And in chess, the pieces that arrived unexpectedly could be the most threatening.
But first — he had a king to topple.
Damien escaped into a quiet hall, out of the public eye. He reached for his phone and typed one message:
Do it.
Less than a minute later, the first fissure in Richard Lancaster's empire emerged.
There was a stir and murmuring swept through the ballroom and turned into quiet whispers. People started looking at their phones, furrowing their brows.
Then, one by one, all eyes in the crowd turned toward the oversized screen mounted above the stage, where the evening's charity presentation had been slated to play.
But not a slideshow of philanthropic accomplishments…
Now a financial report had leaked across the screen.
The numbers were damning.
Millions funneled into foreign bank accounts. Funds funneled through shell corporations. Corruption unveiled in real-time.
Damien lurked in the shadows, his smile slow and easy. Perfect.
The gala was supposed to celebrate Lancaster Corp's newest humanitarian effort. Instead, it was a public execution.
And then, the king started to fall apart.
***
Isla's gut knotted as the atmosphere in the ballroom turned from celebratory to scandalous.
One minute, champagne flutes were raised. The next, a rumor roared from mouth to mouth.
She looked up at the huge screen just as the financial reports were being projected onto it, each line item another chip away at her father's perfect image.
She tightened her grip on her clutch. What the hell is this?
Around her, her father's face twitched, the mask of controlled arrogance cracking for the first time in years.
She had seen him angry before — but this? This was panic.
"Shut it off," Richard barked at his assistant, his voice angry but barely above a whisper.
Isla barely heard him. She was already looking around the room, searching for one face.
Damien Cross.
And there he was.
Standing up next to the bar, unscathed by the carnage he had just wrought. His face was inscrutable, but she knew. She knew.
He wasn't looking at the screen. He was watching her.
It clicked into understanding so quick her breath hitched. This was about much more than a business deal.
It was personal.
She stepped forward before she could stop herself, until a hand gripped her wrist.
"Elena," Isla gasped, shocked at the desperation in her best friend's grasp.
"You have to get out of here." Elena's voice was urgently low.
"Right now."
Isla hardly registered the words. "What?"
Elena glanced at Richard, who was now marching toward his PR team, barking orders.
"Your father is going to go into damage control mode for the next twenty-four hours, and believe me when I tell you that you don't want to be anywhere near him when that kicks in."
She had a point. Richard Lancaster's rage was legendary.
And when events began to spin out of his control, he lashed out at the people around him.
But Isla wasn't thinking about her father now.
She was just thinking of Damien.
Because the man who had just ruined her father's reputation… was still watching her.
And the worst part?
She still didn't know if she wanted to run from him — or to him.
***
Damien could not completely hide his glee watching Richard Lancaster flail.
Pathetic.
The man had been built up as untouchable for years. But one strike — one precise blow — and his empire would be fracturing.
And Isla?
Now, she was staring at him, suspicion flickering in her dark eyes.
Smart girl.
She knew.
But to know wasn't to prove.
Amid the chaos, Damien finally struck. He strode directly to her, slow, purposeful.
She stayed put, didn't step back. If it did, she squarer her shoulders, as though preparing for impact.
"Interesting turn of events," he said, when he got to her.
Her eyes flashed. "Don't insult me."
Damien smiled. A real one this time. "I wouldn't dream of it."
She let out a sharp breath, audible as she restrained herself.
"Was this you?"
"Would it matter if it was?"
Her jaw tightened. "I don't like being played."
Damien cocked his head, looking at her.
"Who told you you're the one being played?"
Her breath hitched.
In that instant the air between them changed.
The tension was not just about the game they were playing. It was something more. Something dangerous.
And Isla knew it.
Damien leaned in, just enough to rub his lips against her ear.
"Careful, Isla," he murmured.
"You may realize I'm not your enemy."
She pulled away, searching his eyes — as if trying to determine whether she hated him or wanted him.
Damien already knew the answer to that.
And it thrilled him.
Then he said no more and turned and vanished into the crowd.
But leaving Isla standing in the midst of her father's destruction—with the knowledge that Damien Cross was only just getting started.
***
Damien walked out of the ballroom, the whispers and frantic murmurs following behind him.
Everything was happening just as he had hoped, maybe even better.
Richard Lancaster had spent decades building an untouchable reputation around ruthless business tactics and control over every lever of power.
But as with any empire founded on falsehood, it was just one targeted hit away from the walls coming crashing down.
Tonight had been that strike.
He walked through the dim corridor down to the service exit, where the heavy doors opened, cool air on his face.
His car was waiting as we spoke, the sleek black vehicle idling at the curb.
As he was about to reach for the door handle, his phone buzzed from his pocket.
Unknown Number.
Damien smirked. Not so unknown.
He picked up, said nothing, just held.
There was a pause for a second. Then, a measured inhale.
"You son of a bitch."
It was Damien, who laughed and slumped against the car.
"About time you showed up, Lancaster."
Richard Lancaster's voice was cold, tinged with rage barely restrained.
"You don't know what you just did."
"I have an idea, I think," Damien said smoothly.
"After all, I designed it."
"You think this little stunt will destroy me?"
Richard snarled. "You're a parasite, Cross."
"An overpaid thug masquerading as a billionaire."
Damien gripped his phone a little tighter, but kept his voice steady.
"And yet, here we are. Me, standing. You, scrambling to clean up after yourself."
There was a pause. Then Richard's voice descended into something dark, something dangerous.
"You don't know who the fuck you fucking with boy. You want a war? Fine. But you won't survive it."
Damien's smirk didn't falter. "We'll see about that."
Then he hung up.
Because as much as Richard Lancaster would have liked to think he still had the upper hand, Damien knew better.
The war had already begun.
And he wasn't the one losing.
***
Isla knew she should leave.
Elena was correct, her father would be a nightmare within twenty-four hours.
He would seek answers, assign blame and lash out at anyone within earshot who could absorb the fallout.
But Isla wasn't sure she minded.
Not while she could still feel the heat of Damien Cross's breath on her skin.
"Careful, Isla. You may discover that I'm not your foe."
The worst part?
She didn't know whether he was telling the truth.
Her father had raised her to believe that trust was a vulnerability. That was the only power that mattered.
But Damien Cross wasn't all about the power.
He had a reason.
And if Isla had learned anything in this world, it was that people didn't burn empires for nothing.
The heels of her shoes clicked on the marble floor as she turned away from the mayhem of the ballroom. Elena shouted after her, but Isla kept walking.
She needed answers.
And she was going to get them.
If it meant marching directly into the lion's den.