IN THE PALM OF HIS HANDS

Chapter 2: The Other Woman

The black Rolls-Royce Phantom glided through the iron gates of Voss Estate like a shadow slipping into darkness.

Aria sat rigid in the back seat, her wrists bound loosely with a silk tie-Damon had used it after she tried to jump out of the moving car. The fabric was dark charcoal grey, soft as water against her skin but unbreakable as chains. Her eyes were swollen from crying, the rims red and raw, her cheeks stained with dried tears. But no more tears came now. Only a hollow, numb silence that felt heavier than grief.

She stared out the tinted window as the estate unfolded before her.

It was massive-a sprawling modern mansion that looked less like a home and more like a fortress. Sharp geometric angles of glass and steel rose against the night sky. The windows were floor-to-ceiling, dark and reflective, impossible to see into. Landscaped gardens stretched in every direction, manicured hedges and bare winter trees standing like silent sentinels. Floodlights bathed the grounds in cold white illumination, leaving no shadows for intruders to hide in.

She counted six armed guards patrolling the perimeter as the car approached. Each wore a black suit and an earpiece. Each carried a gun holstered at his ribs. They moved in pairs, their paths overlapping in a pattern that left no gap uncovered.

This was not a home.

This was a cage.

Damon sat beside her, scrolling through his phone as if he hadn't just destroyed her life an hour ago. His posture was relaxed, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, his silver eyes scanning the screen with mild disinterest. The soft glow of the phone illuminated his sharp jawline, the perfect arch of his brows.

He smelled of sandalwood and something darker-smoke and leather and the faint metallic tang of expensive cologne. His presence filled the car, oppressive and inescapable. Every breath Aria took was flavored with him.

The car stopped in front of the main entrance.

Damon pocketed his phone and stepped out without a word. He didn't look back to see if she was following. He didn't need to. His men would make sure she did.

Aria was pulled from the car by the bald henchman-the one whose face she had scratched. Four red lines still marked his cheek, raw and angry. He didn't seem to notice them. His grip on her arm was firm but not brutal, exactly, as he guided her toward the massive double doors.

She stumbled on the marble steps. Her bare feet-she still hadn't been given shoes-were cold against the stone. But she caught herself. She straightened her spine. She lifted her chin.

She would not show weakness in front of this monster.

The doors swung open into a grand foyer that took her breath away despite herself.

The floor was white marble veined with grey, so polished that she could see her own reflection staring back at her-a disheveled, tear-stained ghost in an oversized sweatshirt and frayed leggings. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling three stories above, thousands of teardrops of glass catching the light and scattering rainbows across the walls. A sweeping curved staircase led to the upper floors, its banister made of dark wrought iron and polished wood.

Everything was expensive. Everything was cold. Everything screamed power and money and I can crush anyone who crosses me.

Then she heard the sound of high heels.

Click. Click. Click.

Sharp. Deliberate. Angry.

Aria looked up.

A woman was descending the curved staircase, and she was stunning in a way that made Aria feel instantly small and shabby.

The woman had fiery red hair-not the orange-red of dye, but a deep, burning crimson that fell in loose waves past her shoulders. Her face was beautiful in a sharp, dangerous way: high cheekbones, full lips painted the color of fresh blood, eyes the shade of emeralds that were currently narrowed with suspicion and fury. Her body was curved and voluptuous, poured into a tight black dress that left very little to the imagination-thin straps, a neckline that plunged almost to her navel, a hem that ended mid-thigh.

She wore diamond earrings that caught the chandelier light. A thin gold chain circled her right ankle, visible above her black stiletto heels. Her fingernails were long and painted crimson to match her lips.

This was Valentina.

And she looked like a woman who was used to getting exactly what she wanted.

"Damon, baby," she purred at first, her red lips curving into a seductive smile as her eyes found him. Her voice was low, smoky, intimate-the voice of a woman who had whispered dirty things in the dark. "You've been gone all night. I was waiting for you."

She descended the last few steps, one hand trailing along the wrought iron banister. Then she noticed Aria.

The smile died.

Her green eyes swept over Aria from head to toe-taking in the tangled dark hair, the swollen eyes, the oversized "HOPE" sweatshirt, the bare feet, the silk tie still binding her wrists. The redhead's nostrils flared. Her jaw tightened.

"Who the hell is this?" Valentina's voice had lost its purr. It was sharp now. Accusing.

Damon didn't even look at her.

He shrugged off his black suit coat and handed it to a waiting servant-a middle-aged woman in a grey uniform who appeared from nowhere and disappeared just as quickly. He loosened his tie with one hand, the movement casual, unconcerned.

"Her name is Aria," he said flatly, still not looking at Valentina. "She's going to be my wife."

The silence that followed was deafening.

Even the armed guards seemed to hold their breath.

Then Valentina laughed.

It was not a pleasant sound. It was sharp and bitter and hysterical, echoing off the marble floors and crystal chandelier like broken glass.

"Your what?" She stormed down the remaining steps, her stilettos hammering against the marble. Her face was flushed with fury, her green eyes blazing. "Are you fucking kidding me, Damon?"

She crossed the foyer in six furious strides and got in his face, jabbing a manicured finger at his chest.

"For eight months, Damon. Eight months. I've been here whenever you called. I've warmed your bed. I've kept my mouth shut about your little... habits. I've let you do things to me that would make most women scream for the police." Her voice cracked. "And now you bring this-this college bitch into your house and tell me you're marrying her? Her?"

She whipped around to face Aria, her eyes raking over her with contempt.

"Look at her! Look at this... this nobody. She looks like a scared little rat." Valentina laughed again, the sound dripping with disdain. "What is she, twenty? Twenty-one? Still in school, I bet. Probably studies something useless like art history. She's wearing sweatpants, Damon. And is that blood on her face?"

Aria's hands clenched into fists at her sides. Despite her fear-despite the exhaustion and the horror and the crushing weight of everything that had happened-anger flared hot in her chest.

"I didn't ask for this," she said, her voice cold and steady. "I was sold. Like cattle. By my own father. So don't stand there in your thousand-dollar heels and act like I'm the villain of this story."

Valentina's eyes widened slightly, surprised by the defiance. Then her lips curled into a sneer.

"Sold?" She turned back to Damon, pressing her body against his arm, her curves molding against his side. Her voice dropped back into that low, intimate purr. "Baby, tell me this is a joke. A sick, twisted joke. We have something real. You know we do." She reached up and touched his face, her crimson nails grazing his stubbled jaw. "I love you, Damon. I've given you everything. My body. My silence. My heart. You can't just throw me away for some-some gambling debt whore."

Damon finally looked at her.

His silver-grey eyes were cold. Not angry. Not cruel. Just... empty. Like he was looking at a piece of furniture he had decided to throw out.

"What we had was sex, Valentina," he said quietly. "Good sex. Nothing more. I never promised you a future. I never promised you love. I never promised you anything except expensive gifts and a warm body when I wanted one."

Valentina flinched like he had slapped her.

"You bastard," she whispered.

"I told you from the beginning not to catch feelings." Damon's voice didn't change. Still soft. Still smooth. Still utterly indifferent. "You chose to ignore that."

Tears welled in Valentina's eyes-real tears, not the performative kind. They spilled down her cheeks, cutting tracks through her foundation.

"After everything," she said, her voice breaking. "After I let you do whatever you wanted to me. After I kept my mouth shut about your... your other side. The things I've seen you do, Damon. The things you become when the moon-"

A low growl rumbled deep in Damon's chest.

It was not a human sound.

It was something primal. Something ancient. Something that made the hairs on Aria's arms stand straight up and her heart slam against her ribs. The sound vibrated through the marble floor, through the crystal chandelier, through the very bones of the house.

For a split second, Damon's silver eyes flashed brighter-almost glowing, a pale luminous white that had no place in a human face.

"Careful," he warned, his voice deadly soft. "You're forgetting your place."

Valentina went pale beneath her makeup. She took a step back, then another, her stilettos wobbling on the marble. Her hands trembled at her sides.

"So you're really going to marry this nobody?" she whispered, tears still streaming down her face. "You're going to make her your wife? Your queen?"

"She is now mine."

Damon's hand shot out and gripped Valentina's jaw-firm enough to hold her still, not hard enough to bruise. His thumb pressed against her chin, tilting her face up toward his.

"You have until morning to pack up the things you keep here. Clothes. Jewelry. Whatever trinkets I bought you. Take them and leave."

He released her and stepped back.

"Everything I bought you stays behind," he added. "Consider it payment for the good times."

Valentina stood frozen in the middle of the foyer, mascara running down her cheeks, her beautiful face twisted with rage and heartbreak and humiliation. She looked at Damon. Then at Aria. Then back at Damon.

"I hope she destroys you," she spat. "I hope that sweet little girl you bought turns out to be the monster that finally eats you alive."

She turned and fled up the stairs, her sobs echoing through the grand foyer.

A few things became clear to Aria in that moment.

Valentina did not live here. The estate was enormous-dozens of bedrooms, probably-but the redhead only kept some of her things here. A drawer in Damon's room. A few dresses in a spare closet. A toothbrush by his sink. She came when he called. She left when he dismissed her. She was a convenience. A plaything. A warm body.

She was never a resident.

Aria watched Valentina disappear up the staircase, heard a door slam somewhere above, and felt... nothing.

No satisfaction. No triumph. Just a deeper, colder dread.

If this was how Damon treated a woman who had warmed his bed for eight months-a woman who claimed to love him-what would he do to her? A woman who had been sold against her will. A woman who would never love him. A woman who might try to run.

Damon turned to Aria, his silver eyes unreadable. He placed a possessive hand on the small of her back, his gloved fingers pressing against the fabric of her sweatshirt.

"Come," he said. "I'll show you to your room."

He guided her up the sweeping staircase, past Valentina's sobs echoing from behind a closed door, past armed guards who stared straight ahead and saw nothing. The hallway on the second floor was long and wide, lined with doors and expensive artwork-oil paintings in gilded frames, abstract sculptures on pedestals.

Damon stopped in front of a large door at the end of the hall. He pushed it open.

The bedroom was enormous-easily three times the size of Aria's entire apartment. A king-sized bed dominated the center, draped in white linens and grey velvet pillows. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the dark gardens. A fireplace crackled in the corner, casting warm orange light across the space. There was a walk-in closet, a marble bathroom visible through an open door, and a small sitting area with a velvet chaise lounge.

"You'll sleep here tonight," Damon said, stepping back into the hallway. "Tomorrow we'll discuss the wedding."

He reached for the door to close it.

Aria spun around, her eyes defiant even through her exhaustion. Her wrists were still bound. Her feet were still bare. Her heart was still pounding.

"I will never marry you," she said, her voice low and fierce. "I'd rather die."

Damon paused.

Then he stepped close-so close that she felt the heat radiating from his body, smelled the sandalwood and smoke, saw the faint glow in those impossible silver eyes. He leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear, his breath warm on her skin.

"You'll marry me, little wolf," he whispered. "And one day soon... you might even beg me to keep you."

He pulled back, looked at her face one last time, and stepped out.

The door closed behind him.

The lock clicked.

And Aria was alone.