Isla had always known her father was ruthless.
She had witnessed him annihilate rivals, erase people from existence — both metaphorically and, sometimes, literally.
Richard Lancaster didn't play the game, he wrote the rules.
But tonight, for the first time in her life, she had seen something like fear in his eyes.
Damien Cross and put it there.
Now, walking into the high-rise lobby of Cross Enterprises, the tension inside her knotted like a wire pulled too taut.
The building screamed power — floor-to-ceiling glass windows, polished marble floors, the kind of silence that made it clear only the powerful used these halls.
She didn't belong here.
But that didn't stop her from heading directly for the reception desk.
The young woman who was making it barely looked up.
"Do you have an appointment?"
"I don't want one," Isla said with icy politeness.
The receptionist finally turned her gaze at her. Recognized her. Hesitated.
Smart girl.
"Mr. Cross is—"
"Expecting me." Isla didn't ask for permission.
She walked right by, heading straight for the private elevator, which she knew led up to Damien's office on the top floor.
The doors opened automatically before she could even push a button.
Her stomach flipped.
Of course, he was watching.
The elevator doors opened on a sleek, minimalist office with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city skyline.
Darkness had crept through the cracks in the hotel's barred windows to paint long shadows reaching across the vast desk where Damien Cross sat𑁋collected, at ease, as though he hadn't just turned her father's whole empire upside down a few hours earlier.
A handsome man, a glass of whiskey in his hand, amber liquid shining in the slow circular motion he made with the drink. He didn't look up right away. Instead he allowed the silence to linger, his attention on the view beyond the window.
A power move.
Isla's heels clacked against the polished floor as she walked ahead.
"You don't beat around the bush, do you?"
The corners of his mouth turned up slightly.
"Neither do you."
She put both hands on his desk and leaned across.
"You did this. You humiliated my father. You want something — what do you want?"
Damien put down his glass, looking up and—finally—meeting her eyes.
"You think I desire something."
"Don't fuck around with me, Cross," she said sharply.
"You don't start wars for no reason."
He scrutinized her, as though determining what to disclose. He rose then, going to the window.
He was in the room, completely, effortlessly, commandingly.
"Your father built an empire on corruption and intimidation and backdoor deals," he said smoothly.
"What happened tonight? That was just the beginning."
Isla crossed her arms and made herself stand firm.
"That's not answering my question."
He turned back to her. "Fine. You want the truth?"
She braced herself.
"I don't just want to destroy Richard Lancaster." His tone was soft but crackling with steel.
"I want to erase him."
A chill ran down her spine.
Damien's words weren't threatening. They were a promise.
It wasn't just about business, though. It wasn't just about power.
This was personal.
"Why?" she said, barely able to whisper.
Something sparkled in his eyes. A shadow of something dark.
He took a step closer. Then another. Until he was in range such that she caught the adjustment in his face — the math of it, the naked dominance.
"Because your father ruined something that was important to me." His voice was deceptively calm.
"And so now, I'm repaying the favor."
Her breath hitched.
The war wasn't only between their families. It was between them.
"And me?" she challenged.
"Am I collateral damage?"
A gradual smirk creased his lips. "Not if you pick the right side."
The air between them changed. The tension was no longer only about the brawl between their fathers.
It was something else. Something dangerous.
Because for the first time in her life, she wasn't certain whether she wanted to defend Richard Lancaster.
And Damien saw it.
"You're playing a dangerous game," she said.
His smirk didn't fade. "Good thing I like danger."
Her hands balled into fists. She hated him. His arrogance, his control, the way he teased her because he knew he was getting to her.
But worst of all?
She hated the part of her that didn't want to leave.
But she had to.
She pivoted on her heel, walked to the elevator. This time, he didn't hold her back.
But just as she entered, his voice floated across the room.
"Careful, Isla. The truth has a funny way of transforming people."
She didn't turn around.
But his words made her uncomfortable.
Because deep down, she knew.
This wasn't over.
It was only just beginning.