Chapter 4 - Breaking Point
"Get under the desk," Damian ordered, shoving the heavy firearm into the waistband of his trousers and grabbing a spare tactical vest from the closet.
"Are you crazy? I'm not hiding under a desk while men with machine guns try to assassinate us!" I grabbed his arm, my nails biting into his sleeve. "We need to call the police! Or run through the roof!"
"The police are on Victor's payroll, and the roof is locked from the outside," Damian snapped, his gray eyes flashing with cold steel. "Now get under the damn desk, Claire, or I swear I will tie you to the chair myself."
Before I could argue, the heavy oak door of the study exploded inward.
Splintered wood showered across the Persian rug as a masked gunman rushed through the threshold, his weapon raised. Damian moved with terrifying, predatory speed. He vaulted over the back of the sofa, tackled the intruder to the marble floor, and disarmed him with a sickening crunch of cartilage before two swift shots echoed through the penthouse.
Smoke filled the hallway. Shouts erupted from the main ballroom as wealthy guests panicked, screaming and scrambling toward the panic rooms.
"Claire! Move!" Damian yelled, grabbing my hand and hauling me toward a hidden panel behind the massive bookshelves.
Adrenaline surged through my veins with the force of a tidal wave. I didn't think; I just ran. We plunged into a dark, narrow emergency stairwell just as two more masked men burst into the study behind us. Bullets ricocheted off the stone walls with deafening cracks, sending sparks flying inches from my head.
"Keep going! Don't look back!" Damian shouted over the gunfire, pushing me down the spiral steps ahead of him while firing backward with lethal precision.
We hit the basement level, bursting out into the underground parking garage where the rain poured through broken security grates. A single black armored SUV idled near the exit ramp, its engine roaring like a caged beast.
Damian shoved me into the passenger seat, slammed the door, and vaulted behind the steering wheel, peeling out of the garage just as a hail of bullets shattered the rear window into a million glittering fragments.
I curled into a ball on the floorboard, my ears ringing, my cheap dress torn at the hem, and my hands shaking so violently I couldn't even breathe.
Minutes stretched into an eternity as the SUV tore through the rain-slicked streets of Manhattan, finally plunging into a secluded underground garage beneath an anonymous warehouse down by the Hudson River.
The engine died. Silence rushed back in, broken only by the sound of our ragged breathing and the patter of rain overhead.
Damian killed the headlights, turned in his seat, and looked at me in the dim dashboard glow. His knuckles were bleeding, his suit was ruined, and his face was smeared with soot.
"Are you hit?" he demanded, his hands gripping my shoulders, searching frantically for injuries.
"No," I choked out, tears finally breaking free and spilling down my cheeks. "No, I'm not hit. But I am never, ever playing your fake wife again. You lied to me. You put my life in danger. I want my five thousand dollars, and then I want out of your life forever."
Damian didn't look angry. He looked... desperate.
"You think you can just walk away after tonight, Claire?" he asked quietly, his thumb wiping a tear from my cheek with surprising gentleness. "Victor knows you were with me. Leon knows your face. You're tied to my name now, whether you signed a marriage license or not."
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"You dragged me into this!"
"And I'm going to protect you from it," he growled, leaning in close until his forehead rested against mine. "Because the moment I saw you standing in that hotel lobby tonight, looking like an angel dropped into hell... I knew I wasn't letting you walk away ever again."
