Chapter 2 - The Command of the King"Take Miss Marlowe outside," Damon repeated. His voice did not rise, but the absolute quietness of it carried to the furthest corners of the dining room.
Celeste Marlowe’s face twisted in disbelief. Her fingers clawed at the front of her ruined silk dress, the stain of the red wine dark and ugly against the ivory fabric. "Damon, you cannot be serious! This... this peasant threw herself into my path! She ruined a five-thousand-dollar gown, and you are treating me like a criminal?"
"You have ten seconds to walk out of those doors on your own feet, Celeste," Damon said, still not looking at her. His eyes remained anchored to Adriana, who was trembling on the floor, her hands protectively cradling her belly. "If my men have to carry you, they will not be gentle."
Walter Marlowe, Celeste’s father, stepped forward from a nearby table, his face flushed with a mixture of alcohol and terror. He knew the depths of the debt his family owed to the Cross syndicate. He knew that one word from Damon could close every hotel they owned by sunrise.
"Celeste, shut up," Walter hissed, grabbing his daughter’s arm. He looked at Damon, his posture instantly bowing. "Damon, please. She is high-strung. The stress of our current... situation. We will pay for the damage. We will compensate the girl."
"Get out, Walter," Damon said.
The two security guards closed the distance, their shadows falling over the Marlowes. Realizing the gravity of the cliff they were standing on, Walter dragged his protesting, hysterical daughter toward the exit. The heavy oak doors of St. Cordova opened and closed, swallowing her shrieks and leaving the dining room in a dead, suffocating silence.
Damon turned his attention to the room. He looked at the maître d’, who was sweating through his tailored tuxedo.
"Clear the restaurant," Damon commanded. "Now."
"Mr. Cross, the guests—"
"I don't care about the guests," Damon cut him off. "Comp their meals. Tell them the kitchen is closed. Anyone who is still in this room in two minutes will find their names on a list they do not want to be on."
The panic was quiet but immediate. Within ninety seconds, the dining room of St. Cordova was empty, save for the flickering candles, the shattered crystal, and the three people who mattered.
Damon knelt beside Adriana again. He reached out to help her up, but she flinched, pulling herself back against the base of the serving cart.
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"Don't touch me," she whispered, her voice cracking with a raw, ancient grief. "Please, Damon. Just let me go. I'm Annie here. I'm just Annie."
"You are Adriana Voss," Damon said, his voice breaking by the smallest fraction. "You are Eli’s wife. And you are eating dirt in my city while carrying his child. Do you think he would ever forgive me if I let you walk out of here tonight?"
