The Wrong Girl Burns Bright

Cleo went still, then slowly turned.

Damian stood by their booth.

Black suit, perfectly tailored. Tall, straight-backed. Cold, controlled. He didn't belong in this chaos—like something untouchable dropped into the middle of it. Everything else faded next to him.

Stella sucked in a breath, instantly sober. She shot Cleo a panicked look, grabbed her bag, and bolted.

Now it was just Cleo and Damian, staring each other down.

And her hand—still hooked under that guy's chin.

Damian's gaze dropped to it. His eyes went dark.

He stepped in, grabbed her wrist, then flicked a freezing look at the guy.

"Get out."

The guy went pale. Him and the rest scattered in seconds.

Cleo yanked her hand free, rubbing her wrist, already red. She shot him a glare.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"I should be asking you that." His voice cut cold. "Why are you in a place like this?"

"I felt like it." She shrugged, careless, defiant. "What's it to you?"

He studied her—stubborn, unapologetic, bold. His gaze darkened.

Before she could react, he bent and threw her over his shoulder.

"What are you doing? Put me down! You jerk!"

Furious, she pounded his back, kicking hard.

He didn't even slow down.

He carried her straight through the staring crowd, out of the club, and shoved her into the black Rolls-Royce at the curb.

"Drive."

"Yes, sir."

The car glided off. Cleo lunged for the handle, ready to jump.

"Cleo."

Damian grabbed her arm and yanked her back into the seat.

He stared at her, voice flat and cold. "How long are you gonna keep this up?

"You're about to marry into my family. I gave you the house rules. One clause—home before ten. No bars. No clubs. Nothing like this. Didn't you read it?

"You're not coming to places like this again. As for tonight, when we get back, you'll write a ten-thousand-word reflection. I want a full breakdown of what you did and why it won't happen again."

'Ten thousand words? House rules?' Cleo almost laughed, anger rising sharp in her chest.

In her last life, those thousands of rules had boxed her in for years. She'd lived like a puppet.

Not this time.

"Who the hell's writing your stupid reflection?" she snapped. "What do your rules have to do with me? I'm not marrying you."

The car went dead quiet.

Damian turned, sharp. His eyes locked on hers—disbelief, something darker underneath.

He held her gaze for a long beat, jaw tight.

"What do you mean?"

Cleo looked at him. The urge to tell him everything cooled just as fast.

He already hated how wild she was. If she told him now his perfect bride had been swapped in—wouldn't that be letting him off easy?

Her last life pressed in on her. Suffocating.

She drew a slow breath. 'Let him suffer a little.

'Let him sit with the idea of marrying me for a few more days.'

She shoved it all down and turned to the window.

"Nothing. I was just mad."

Damian watched her for a beat. The darkness in his eyes eased a little, but his tone stayed firm.

"Sit properly."

Even pissed, he sat ramrod straight, not a hair out of place. The memory of those suffocating rules hit her all over again.

She didn't move.

Instead, she slouched across the seat, kicked off her heels, and pressed her bare feet into the cashmere carpet. Then she rolled the window down and let the night wind tear through her styled hair.

Bold. Bright. Unrestrained. That was her.

Damian watched her—completely out of place in his perfectly ordered world. His brows pulled tight, but he didn't say a word.

The car stopped in front of the Carrington house.

Cleo pushed the door open and stepped out.

"Cleo."

Damian's voice came from behind her, cool as ever. "Ten thousand words. On my desk tomorrow."

Then he told the driver to go.

Cleo stared at the fading taillights, then kicked a stone hard across the pavement.