Chapter 2 - The VIP Suite at the Drake
Across the city, high above the glittering, storm-tossed waters of Lake Michigan, Damien Cross swirled a glass of twenty-year-old Macallan in the penthouse suite of the Drake Hotel.
The room was bathed in the warm, amber glow of a designer floor lamp. Soft jazz murmured from a hidden sound system. On the plush velvet sofa, Victoria Vance adjusted the silk strap of her emerald evening gown, laughing softly as she watched Damien stare abstractedly at his high-end smartphone resting on the coffee table.
It had buzzed twelve times in the last twenty minutes.
“Your wife is certainly persistent, Damien,” Victoria remarked, taking a sip of her champagne. “Does she know you’re negotiating a municipal zoning deal tonight, or is she just checking up on her favorite billionaire?”
Damien frowned, his dark brow furrowing as he tossed his scotch back in one swallow. He reached down, picked up the phone, and tossed it onto the adjacent armchair out of sight.
“Grace knows better than to interrupt me when I’m working,” Damien said, his voice cold and clipped. “She’s dramatic. Ever since we got married, she treats every late night like an existential crisis. She’s probably sitting in that empty mansion in Winnetka crying over a burned dinner or a thunderstorm.”
“Well,” Victoria purred, standing up and gliding over to him, wrapping her arms around his neck, “you have me instead. And I don’t require babysitting.”
Damien pulled her close, inhaling her expensive French perfume, but a strange, nagging chill crawled up the back of his neck. Twelve missed calls. Usually, Grace stopped after three. She wasn't a nagging wife; she was patient, almost to a fault. That was why he had married her—she brought a quiet, respectable sheen to his otherwise ruthless public profile. A fourth-grade teacher with gentle eyes and zero ambition made the city forget that the Cross name was built on smuggled contraband and union payoffs.
His phone buzzed again from the armchair.
A text message banner illuminated the dark screen: Missed call from Grace Cross (13).
Damien pulled back slightly from Victoria. “Just a second.”
“Leave it, Damien,” Victoria whispered, pressing her lips against his jawline. “She’ll survive. Women like Grace always do.”
Damien hesitated, his thumb hovering over the phone. But the storm outside rattled the reinforced glass of the penthouse windows with such violent force that it sounded like a fist pounding on a door. A strange, heavy dread settled in his stomach.
May you like
He shook it off, telling himself he was being paranoid. He was Damien Cross. Men like him didn’t panic over a clingy wife.
He silenced the phone completely and tossed it onto the sofa cushion face down.
