The Night the Don Died in My Arms

Damien pulled the first-aid kit from the back seat and pressed a compress against my wound.

Rough. Like he was taking his anger out on the gauze.

"Ow..."

I hissed through my teeth.

His hand paused for a fraction of a second, then he said flatly, "Fine. Don't tell me. The casino's covered in cameras."

A beat. "I'd like to see who had the nerve to ignore my fiancée's orders."

So that was all he cared about.

I couldn't help the bitter laugh.

Of course. The man who'd personally circulated my nude photos to the entire school seven years ago was never going to actually care about me.

The car tore through the rainy streets. We sat in silence.

Until I realized we were going the wrong way.

This road led to where I used to live.

Damien wasn't using GPS. He was driving from memory.

Something complicated stirred inside me. Then Damien broke the silence, voice cold: "Apparently the casino pays well."

He glanced at me, toneless. "Even Helen Colter's daughter is willing to do this kind of work."

"Damien."

I watched the rain streaking down the window and sighed.

"Since when does the Don talk this much?"

The car slammed to a halt.

Next second, I was pinned against the seat.

Damien braced himself over me, breathing hard.

"What."

His voice was barely above a whisper.

"Not happy to be in my car?"

His gaze dropped to the bruises on my neck — finger marks left by one of tonight's guests — and something in his eyes went black.

"Or maybe —"

"My fiancée ruined your business tonight. Wasted your whole evening."

I looked into those eyes — so unbearably like my son's — and gave a quiet hum.

"That's right."

"If it weren't for her little announcement, I'd have made good money tonight."

I held his gaze, perfectly calm. "Does that answer satisfy you, Don Ashford?"

His face twisted.

I was done. I shoved him off. "Let me out here. I'll walk the rest."

Damien stared straight ahead and let out a cold laugh. "Walk? By the time you get there, your clients will have gotten tired of waiting."

My hand froze on the door handle.

In his mind, that's all I'd ever be.

But if not for him, I wouldn't be here in the first place.

I reached for the handle — and he seized my wrist.

He pulled me against him.

"Vivienne." His voice was ice. "Don't forget — I won tonight's game."

Before I could react, I was pressed back into the seat.

One hand gripped my chin, forcing my face up. His eyes were black, his breathing harsh.

"One night."

"You're good at this, aren't you?"

And just like that, my mind split open.

Seven years ago.

He'd pinned me to the bed exactly like this.

The lights were low. He pressed his lips to my ear and whispered "I love you" over and over, so gently it felt like a prayer.

I melted into it, arched into him, believed it was love.

Then the image shattered.

My mother's hysterical screaming. The blinding hospital lights. Doctors barking orders. And inside an incubator, a baby threaded with tubes — all of it crashing back at once.

"Get off me!" I shoved him with everything I had, nearly screaming. "Don't touch me!"

Damien slammed back against the steering wheel. The horn blared.

He seemed to come to his senses in that instant. He stopped. Went rigid.

The car fell silent.

Nothing but rain hammering the windshield.

Dead silence.

I sat clutching my collar, exhausted beyond words.

After the photos, I'd been forced to drop out. My mother — a woman who'd spent her life upholding her reputation as an educator — was destroyed by the scandal.

She spiraled into depression.

I took care of her while juggling multiple jobs, running myself so ragged I collapsed on a public street.

That was the day I learned I was seven months pregnant. Too late for a termination.

The baby was born with a congenital heart defect — malnourished in the womb. For his entire first year, he survived on tubes and machines.

I went back to work less than a week after delivery. Not long after, I got the call that my mother had jumped from our apartment building.

When I heard the news, I dropped to my knees in the middle of a crowded street and screamed Damien Ashford's name like a curse.

But back at the hospital, when I looked into that incubator — when that tiny baby reached his fingers toward me, looking up at me with eyes exactly like his father's —

the despair went quiet. And I decided to live.

Then, just recently, Luca's heart took a sudden turn for the worse.

The doctors said if we didn't raise the funds for a transplant within three months, he'd die.

That day, for the first time, I swallowed my pride and went to find Damien. I didn't even make it through the gate — his bodyguards threw me out.

They said they'd seen plenty of women show up with sob stories.

I was at my lowest when a man stopped me.

He liked the way I looked. Offered me a spot at the casino.

"Offered" — that was the polite word. It was a transaction.

One night with him, in exchange for a way in.

I looked back at the Ashford gates, sealed shut against me.

And nodded.

A clean transaction was better than a rigged trap.

At least this time, I knew exactly what I was giving up.

Seven years ago, Damien had lured me into bed for one reason: revenge against my mother.

Because his first love, Rosalie.

Jumped from a building on his birthday.

And left behind a single letter. The only name in it—

was my mother's.