**Chapter 1** **Damon** The moment Selena’s soft pink lips enveloped me, I hardly registered the sensation. It wasn’t that she lacked skill—her adept hand wrapped around my base while her palm cradled my most sensitive area, a simultaneous movement that would have sent any ordinary man over the edge. She was one of the best in the business, fully aware of what I wanted. A quick, uncomplicated release followed by absolute solitude. But today, despite her expert ministrations, my body remained stubbornly unresponsive. I bore no shame in indulging my needs; I could afford to pay for it, and I preferred a complete lack of emotional entanglements. Casual hookups had left me frustrated in the past, each woman inevitably seeking something deeper. I couldn’t blame them though; I was the heir to the Everette fortune. But beyond greed, there was another force driving people, one that could turn a warm heart ice-cold: the desire for revenge. That's why I opted for this service—no feelings, no awkward farewells, purely transactional. It was a flawless solution, particularly after the chaos of today, when Miss Hart had chastised me in that conference room, her pale pink hair flowing as she leaned over the table, her fierce gaze demanding my attention. As if I was there for anything else. Yes, I owned the Boston Bruins, among several other companies, but I refrained from attending PR meetings. I had people for that. When I’d informed my brother of my attendance, he had shot me a knowing glance that I swiftly dismissed with a foul-mouthed retort before he could utter a single word. Men like me simply did not sit in on routine meetings. Yet here I was, because my obsession with my vibrant, pixie-like PR rep complicated my better judgment. She exuded youth and energy—qualities I craved but knew could ruin her utterly. The very thought of my hands tainting her was enough to send a shiver down my spine. Her light would dim the moment I touched her, and yet, my desire to reach across the table and capture her lips surged. It was precisely why I had chosen this very moment for my escapade. With a sharp pop, Selena broke the rhythm, glancing up at me with her warm brown eyes. “You okay? Am I doing something wrong?” “You’re fine,” I grunted, my fingers tangling in her hair as I pulled her back to me, determined to find that elusive release. As her mouth moved on me, my gaze drifted to the empty conference table where Misty often sat. I envisioned her from earlier that day, her defiance and unyielding spirit consuming me. This time, however, I relinquished my emotional restraint. Instead of walls, I imagined the two of us in that sterile conference room, my hands roaming over her body, compelling her closeness until her breathing picked up. A low groan built in my chest as Selena’s expert mouth worked on me, pushing me to the edge—but it wasn’t enough. I needed more. Frustration simmered, and just as I contemplated ending this encounter to regain my composure, the conference room door swung open with a soft creak, the light from the hallway spilling in. Stand frozen in the threshold was Misty, her hair twisted up, revealing the graceful curve of her neck. My hunger for her intensified as I noted how her blouse strained against her body, desperately wanting to break free. I envisioned ripping that fabric away, wanting to feel her warmth enveloping me. She didn’t belong here, yet I couldn’t help but crave her. A primal urge surged through me. I should keep her at a distance, protect her from the darkness that loomed over me, but my focus shifted from Selena to the intoxicating figure in the doorway. Suddenly, the reality of what I was feeling struck me like a jolt. The luscious lips around me morphed into her own, and with each desperate sound Selena made, it was Misty’s face that filled my mind. I felt my control slipping, a primal need blooming, taking over my senses. But Misty’s shock turned to something more profound; horror gripped her expression in the fleeting moment before she vanished beyond the door. “Welcome back,” I muttered, barely above a whisper, as panic twisted into something more ominous within me. I could have chased her, pressed her against the wall, thrust my fingers beneath her skirt, and confirmed if my suspicions were true—if she too felt the scorching heat igniting between us. But instead, I watched the moment slip away, wrestling with my desire to pursue her, but understanding that I needed to let her come to terms with this darkness swirling around us. Selena’s voice broke through my thoughts. “She’s the reason you called?” she asked, dressed in her professional attire which contrasted sharply with Misty’s chaotic energy. “It won’t happen again,” I replied, acknowledging her without care. She nodded, her gaze slipping toward the stained carpet, discolored evidence of my outburst. “You go. I’ll handle this.” I pressed my fob, summoning the elevator with a sense of urgency. It was coded just for me, skipping any unnecessary stops. I hoped it would return me to her—a foolish yet undeniable hope. As I descended, frustration clawed at me. The car was empty when I reached ground level; I emerged just in time to see her bright hair become a distant figure as she slid into an Uber. “Fernando,” I said to the security guard, who had become my right-hand man over the years. “There’s a Miss Selena on my floor. Ensure she leaves without complication.” “Understood, boss.” My car was waiting, the valet trained to anticipate my every need. I maneuvered through the streets, tailing the navy blue car, desperate not to let her out of my sight. I knew the risks but couldn’t help the thrill I felt in the chase. I needed to know she was safe, even if that meant behaving like a reckless fool. As I pulled up to her apartment, my heart raced with the need to protect her, to wrench her from the predatory world I inhabited. I watched her struggle with her keys, the agonizing wait twisting the muscles in my jaw tight. “Matthias,” I said, dialing up my brother who answered with exhaustion thick in his voice. “What’s up?” “It’s personal,” I replied, keeping my gaze fixed firmly on her door. “Oh? Who is he?” “She.” I exhaled sharply, prepared for the inevitable lecture about getting too involved. He chuckled but sobered quickly. “You know we used to use our talents to control the Society. Now you’re stalking a girl? Talk about misusing your power.” “It was always about power,” I countered, my voice low and laced with danger. A silence enveloped us, thickening as we both understood the weight of our legacies—the cruelty entwined within our family name. “So who are we stalking?” he finally pressed. “My future wife.”