The tension in the foyer was no longer just thick; it was suffocating, a physical weight that made every breath feel like a struggle.
Damian stood like a wall of granite between Alina and the barrels of the guns. His eyes, usually a calm, stormy gray mixed with black, were now burning with a cold, predatory fire.
"My wife is going nowhere, sir," Damian said, his voice dropping into a register that made the very air vibrate. He didn't just speak; he commanded the space.
"Secondly, why are you here? What has my wife done to be arrested without a shred of proof?" He questioned the officers, his gaze flicking between them.
He was calculating every move, wondering how these men had even breached his security and arrived so perfectly timed with Elena's hysterics.
The two men in uniform shifted, a flicker of agitation crossing their faces. It was a subtle thing—a tightening of the jaw, a nervous twitch of a finger—but to men like Damian and Lucas, it was as loud as a siren.
