Chapter 232: The Devil’s Call

?Dante’s pale blue eyes flicked over Damian’s shoulder, lingering on Anastasia. His gaze raked over the midnight-black silk, the proud line of her throat, and the cold defiance still burning in her hazel eyes.

?A slow, sickening smirk carved across Dante’s lips as he looked back at Damian.

?"Enjoy your display tonight, Sterling," Dante whispered, stepping closer until his words were meant only for Damian’s ears, vibrating with quiet, lethal certainty. "Play the invincible king for the cameras. Brand your marks into her skin. But when the ground finally splits beneath your feet, it won’t be me bleeding on this floor. It will be you."

?Dante leaned in a fraction of an inch, his smile widening into something predatory and merciless.

?"And this time, not even all your billions will be able to heal the wound... because I am going to steal your most precious possession right out of your hands. Very soon."

?With a polite, mocking nod toward Anastasia, Dante turned on his polished heel and vanished into the glittering crowd, leaving the suffocating promise of war hanging in the cold museum air.

The air in the rotunda was suffocating, charged with a lethal static that threatened to burn through the museum’s marble arches.

?Dante Sullivan had vanished into the throng of champagne glasses and laughter, but the venom of his parting words lingered like an open blade.

?Damian’s jaw was clamped so tight the muscle twitched visibly against his skin. His fists were balled at his sides, knuckles bleached white against the darkness of his tuxedo, his breath tearing from his chest in low, violent rasps. The ruthless billionaire who controlled market capital with surgical coldness was gone; in his place stood a predator pushed to the very edge of slaughter, his obsidian eyes black with unhinged fury.

?He made half a step toward the crowd, his shoulders bunching, ready to drag Sullivan out into the October rain and tear him to pieces where the cameras couldn’t reach.

?Ana moved before he could take another stride.

?She stepped squarely into his path, blocking his line of sight to the ballroom. Her manicured hands came up, cool and steady, closing over his clenched right fist.

?"Damian," she whispered, her voice low, firm, and cutting cleanly through the roar of blood in his ears. "Look at me."

?Damian didn’t look down at first, his gaze burning past her shoulder, tracking the shadows of the mezzanine.

?"Damian. Look at me." Ana tightened her grip on his rigid knuckles, stepping closer until the liquid midnight-black silk of her dress brushed against his tailored slacks. "He did that deliberately. He wanted to rattle you, to drag you into a brawl where the press could photograph your teeth. Don’t give him what he wants."

?Slowly, like an iron cog turning under immense strain, Damian’s gaze dropped to hers.

?His dark eyes were dilated, burning with a terrifying, raw possessiveness. He unclenched his fist, flipping his hand over to lace his long fingers brutally tight through hers, pulling her an inch forward. His other arm hooked around her waist, his large palm pressing flat against the bare expanse of her lower spine, hauling her flush against his chest right there in the alcove’s shadow.

?"He threatened to take you, Anastasia," Damian rasped, his baritone trembling with a dark, gravelly desperation that shook the hollow of her throat. "He stood on this floor and spoke about taking you as if you are something he can reach."

?"He can’t touch me," Ana said, refusing to shrink, her hazel eyes meeting his with fierce, unshakeable certainty. "I knew what he was the second he opened his mouth. He thought he could play the charming savior, and I told him to his face that I know about his syndicate. He has no leverage over me, Damian. None."

?Damian’s chest heaved against hers. Hearing her claim that strength—hearing her stand as an impenetrable wall beside him—only stoked the terrifying fire in his veins. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, his hand tightening on her bare back until it bordered on bruising.

?"He will die before he touches a single strand of your hair," Damian breathed, the vow etched in blood and stone. "I will burn this entire city to ash before anyone lays a hand on you."

?"Mr. Sterling."

?The quiet, deferential voice came from the edge of the rotunda.

?Damian’s head snapped up with lethal speed, his eyes flashing like obsidian knives.

?Standing three paces back, looking pale and nervous under Damian’s murderous glare, was Arthur Pendleton, the Metropolitan Museum’s chief curator and chair of the gala committee. He held a leather-bound folio against his chest, clutching it like a shield.

?"I... forgive the interruption, Mr. Sterling," Pendleton stammered, swallowing hard as he took in Damian’s terrifying stance and the sheer intensity radiating between the couple. "The board of trustees... they are convening on the main stage in the Engelhard Court. As the headline endowment patron for the new wing, the committee requires your opening address before dinner is served. The mayor and the governor have already taken their seats at the podium."

?Damian’s arm didn’t loosen around Ana’s waist. "Find someone else."

?Pendelton looked horrified. "Sir, protocol demands the titular donor open the ceremonies. The press pool is already arranged around the stage. It is five minutes, Mr. Sterling. Only five minutes."

?"Damian."

?A smooth, familiar voice cut through the tension.

?Julian had just arrived from the main reception gallery, dressed in a sharply tailored midnight-navy tuxedo, looking every bit the relaxed, effortless aristocrat. On his arm was Clara, stunning in a sculpted champagne satin dress, her diamond earrings catching the chandelier glow.

?The couple had clearly just cleared the red carpet crush, but the moment Julian’s sharp eyes caught Damian’s rigid posture and Ana’s guarded expression, his easy smile faded into focused awareness.

?"Julian," Damian acknowledged, his voice tight.

?"We just walked in through the Great Hall," Clara said warmly, stepping forward to greet Ana with a gentle, reassuring smile. "Ana, darling, you look absolutely magnificent. That gown is pure perfection."

?"Thank you, Clara," Ana murmured, grateful for the breath of normalcy.

?Julian stepped closer, his gaze drifting from Pendelton’s sweating brow to Damian’s tense jaw. He read the room in half a second. "Trouble with the committee?"

?"The stage," Damian said coldly, looking back at Ana. "They want the donor address now."

?Ana placed a gentle, grounding hand on Damian’s forearm. "Go, Damian. You paid for that wing. Don’t let Sullivan make you hide in the shadows. Take your stage."

?Damian hesitated, his jaw ticking. He despised the thought of leaving her side for even a fraction of a second in a room crawling with wolves.

?Julian caught Damian’s eye and offered a brief, solemn nod—a silent understanding between lifelong friends. "Go handle the microphones, Damian. Clara and I aren’t going anywhere. We’ll stay right beside Ana until you get down."

?Damian held Julian’s gaze for a heavy, deliberate beat before turning back to Ana.

?He reached up, his thumb lightly grazing the curve of her jaw, lingering right over the hollow where his mark lay concealed beneath the silk and powder.

?"Five minutes, Anastasia," Damian murmured against her lips, his dark eyes burning into hers. "Stay with them."

?He released her slowly, stepping back into the light of the rotunda. Straightening the cuffs of his bespoke tuxedo, Damian turned and followed the curator toward the grand arches of the Engelhard Court, his commanding presence immediately parting the sea of high-society guests as he walked toward the stage.

?Clara looped an arm gently through Ana’s, offering a warm, protective presence, while Julian stood at Ana’s other side, sipping a glass of water and keeping a sharp, hawkish eye on the surrounding crowd.

?Across the expansive hall, under the glittering crystal chandeliers, the guests began shifting toward the auditorium doors to watch Damian’s address.

?And from behind a towering floral display near the sculpture gallery, a familiar figure in a pristine white gown stepped into view.

?Vivian Stark was walking straight toward the direction Damian went, her eyes locked onto Anastasia.