The message came through just after noon, right when I was debating whether to actually eat lunch or just drink another coffee and pretend it counted.
It wasn't from Hazel, or PR, or even Adrian, who'd been strangely quiet since last night's little "hotel suite" incident.
It was from an unknown number.
Ravenwood Club. Private lounge. 2:00 PM.
One conversation. Your choice whether you walk in or I walk into your life another way. — D.C.
I stared at the screen for a solid thirty seconds before Hazel's voice snapped me out of it. She was leaning in the doorway to my office, one hand on the frame, the other holding a smoothie the color of moss.
"You look like you just read your own obituary," she said.
"It's Damien Cross," I told her.
She nearly choked on the straw. "The Damien Cross? What does he want?"
"I don't know. He didn't exactly include an agenda."
Hazel's eyes narrowed. "You're not actually considering—"
"Yes," I said. "I am."
"Isla—"
"If he wants to talk, I want to hear it," I cut in. "You know his reputation. He doesn't waste time on meaningless meetings."
Hazel made a sound halfway between a groan and a laugh. "Fine. But if this ends with you stuffed into a metaphorical trunk, I'm going to say I told you so while rescuing you."
The Ravenwood Club was the kind of place people joined just so they could say they were members. It was tucked behind frosted glass doors on the top floor of a high-rise, with a view of the river that made you feel like you owned half the city just by standing there.
A hostess with a perfect chignon greeted me by name—of course—and led me past a series of private alcoves where deals were whispered over rare whiskey. The carpet was deep enough to swallow the click of my heels, and every surface gleamed like it had its own lighting crew.
She stopped at a corner lounge screened off by dark wood panels. "Mr. Cross is expecting you," she said, her voice pitched low, as if speaking louder might offend the leather chairs.
Damien was already seated when I stepped in. Black suit, white shirt, no tie today—relaxed, but not casual. His jacket was open, one arm draped along the back of the sofa, the other hand holding a tumbler of something amber and expensive.
He didn't stand. He didn't need to.
"You want revenge," he said, before I'd even closed the door, "I want leverage."
Straight to the point.
I walked to the opposite sofa and sat down, crossing my legs slowly. "That's one way to start a conversation."
"It's the only way to start this one," he replied, setting the glass down. "We both know why you're here."
"Enlighten me," I said.
His mouth curved slightly, not a smile exactly, more like an acknowledgment. "Adrian humiliated you. Publicly. He made you look weak. You hate looking weak."
I didn't answer.
"And I," he continued, "enjoy watching him lose."
I leaned back, studying him. "You think I'm just going to hand you the satisfaction of using me as a pawn?"
"You're not a pawn, Isla," Damien said evenly. "You're a queen. You just need a better board."
That made me laugh, short and humorless. "And you're what? The grandmaster?"
"Something like that," he said. "Which is why I'm offering you a deal. We announce a one-year engagement. You get the public image of moving on with someone untouchable. I get to watch Adrian choke on the sight of you standing beside me at every major event in Ravenwood."
I stared at him. "You're serious."
"Deadly," he said.
The absurdity of it almost made me get up and walk out. But then I thought of Adrian's face this morning when I told him I wanted him gone. I thought of Sofia's smirk in my hotel room. And I stayed exactly where I was.
"What's the catch?" I asked.
Damien's eyes sharpened, like a shark catching the glint of something in the water. "It won't be a paper engagement. It'll be contractual. One year. Appearances together as required. A clear exit clause. In return, I'll give you something Adrian never can."
"And that is?"
"Protection," he said simply. "From the press. From the vultures on your board. And…" He paused, deliberately, like he knew he was about to land a hit. "…from the truth about your family that Adrian would love to get his hands on."
I felt my spine stiffen. "What truth?"
He didn't answer right away. He reached for his glass, took a slow sip, set it back down with the kind of precision that made me think nothing about Damien Cross was accidental.
"You'll find out soon enough," he said. "The point is, I already know it. And so does Adrian. The difference is, I have no interest in using it to destroy you."
I hated how that made my pulse jump. "And if I say no?"
"Then," he said, leaning forward, "Adrian will have free rein. And you'll keep fighting him alone. How long do you think you'll last?"
I looked at him across the gleaming table, at the man everyone in this city called a machine. Cold, ruthless, unshakable. The kind of man who didn't just play the game—he rewrote it.
My pride screamed at me to walk out. But another voice, quieter and sharper, whispered that sometimes survival meant making deals with people you didn't trust.
"Show me the contract," I said.
Damien's mouth twitched, just enough to let me know I'd surprised him. "You'll have it in your inbox by tonight."
"And if I sign?"
"Then we start tomorrow," he said. "And by Saturday, the only story the city will care about is that you're mine."
The words sent a shiver down my spine—not from the claim itself, but from the absolute certainty in his voice.
好的,我接着从 Damien 说 "And by Saturday, the only story the city will care about is that you're mine." 继续,把 Chapter 2 补完到 2500+ 英文单词,并在结尾做大纲匹配检查.
Chapter 2 — A Deal with the Enemy
Part 2
I let the words hang there for a moment, testing them against my better judgment.
"You really like the sound of your own voice, don't you?" I said.
He didn't flinch. "Only when I'm right."
I leaned back, crossing my arms. "And what exactly do you get out of this, besides a front-row seat to Adrian's slow implosion?"
Damien's gaze was steady, unblinking. "Leverage. Adrian won't make reckless moves against me while you're standing at my side. It destabilizes him. And destabilized men make bad business decisions."
"So I'm bait."
"You're a catalyst," he corrected. "You'll light the fire, and I'll control the burn."
I hated that part of me wanted to see that happen—to watch Adrian squirm in public, to watch Sofia's smile crack under the weight of her own bad choices.
"What about my reputation?" I asked. "You're not exactly known for being… soft."
"I'm not," Damien said plainly. "Which is why no one will believe I'm doing this for anything but mutual benefit. That's the point. No one can accuse you of acting out of desperation if you're aligned with someone who never acts out of emotion."
I studied him. "And if I decide halfway through that I've had enough?"
"You won't," he said, with maddening certainty. "But the contract will have a dissolution clause—mutual consent after one year. No penalties."
"And the conditions?"
His eyes sharpened. "We attend events together. We present as a couple in public. No contradictory statements to the press. You'll have full access to my resources—legal, security, communications. In return, you'll follow my lead when it matters."
I arched a brow. "Follow your lead?"
"This isn't about ego," he said. "It's about strategy. Two voices can't contradict each other if we want to win."
I hated that he had a point. "And if your strategy involves throwing me under the bus?"
His mouth curved faintly. "Then you'll see it coming before anyone else does. I don't hide my plays from my partners."
Partners. The word sat between us like a dare.
I tapped my nails against the arm of the chair, weighing my pride against the satisfaction of making Adrian watch me walk into every gala, boardroom, and press conference with Damien Cross.
"You mentioned my family," I said. "If I agree, you're going to tell me exactly what you know."
"I will," Damien said. "When the ink is dry."
"Why not now?"
"Because," he said, "you haven't decided if you trust me yet. And you shouldn't. Not until we're on the same side."
I exhaled slowly. "You really are a machine."
"Machines are predictable," he said. "I'm not."
I almost laughed at that. Almost.
"Fine," I said at last. "Send me the contract."
"Already in progress," Damien replied, pulling out his phone. His thumbs moved fast, precise. "My legal team will send it within the hour. Read it, send it to your lawyers if you want. But I suggest you sign quickly. We don't have time to waste."
I raised an eyebrow. "Why the rush?"
"Because Adrian's camp will have the hotel story to the tabloids by tomorrow morning," Damien said. "We need to give them something louder to print."
I felt my pulse spike. "And you think this will do it?"
"I know it will," he said. "People love a replacement story. Especially one that comes with better photographs."
I left the Ravenwood Club with a manila envelope in my bag and a headache behind my eyes. Hazel was waiting in the lobby, pacing near the elevators.
"Well?" she demanded the second she saw me.
"He wants to announce a fake engagement," I said.
Hazel's eyes went wide. "With him?"
"Yes."
She stared at me like I'd just told her I was moving to Antarctica with a polar bear. "And you're considering this why?"
"Because he knows something about my family," I said quietly. "And because he can protect me from Adrian's next move."
Hazel's mouth opened, closed. "Okay. Fine. But you do realize the optics of this are going to make the city combust, right?"
"That's the idea," I said.
She groaned. "I'm going to need more wine."
That night, the contract arrived in my inbox at exactly 6:00 PM. Thirty-six pages of legal precision, bullet-pointed clauses, and timelines. The key points were exactly as Damien had promised: one year, public appearances, mutual consent to dissolve, full resource sharing.
And then there was Clause 7: No disclosure of confidential information obtained during the term of the agreement, including but not limited to matters relating to the personal history or family of either party.
I stared at that line for a long time. He'd built the entire deal around protecting whatever it was he knew.
I forwarded the contract to my lawyer with a note: Read this tonight. I need your opinion by morning.
Two hours later, my phone buzzed with a call from Damien.
"Tell me you've read it," he said when I answered.
"I have," I said.
"And?"
"And I'll sign it," I told him. "On one condition."
"Which is?"
"You tell me what you know about my family—before the press conference."
There was a brief silence. "Done," he said.
"When?"
"Tomorrow," Damien said. "In person. Noon. My office."
"Why not now?"
"Because I want to see your face when I tell you," he said, and then hung up.
The next day, I walked into RavenCorp headquarters for the first time. The lobby was a cathedral of glass and steel, polished floors reflecting the morning light. The receptionist greeted me by name and handed me a visitor's pass without asking for ID.
Damien was waiting in his office, which looked out over the river. He gestured to the chair across from his desk.
"Sit," he said.
I did.
He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "Your adoption wasn't as clean as the Voss family wants you to think."
My stomach dropped. "What does that mean?"
"It means," Damien said, "that someone in your family paid to make sure you were never connected to your biological parents. And Adrian has been looking for the paperwork to prove it."
I felt my nails dig into the armrest. "Why?"
"Because if he finds it, he can challenge your position in the Voss line," Damien said. "And if you lose that position, you lose everything that keeps you on equal footing with him."
The room felt smaller all of a sudden. "And you have this paperwork?"
"I have a copy," Damien said. "Safe. Secure. And as long as you're with me, it stays buried."
I stared at him. "So this is blackmail."
"This is protection," he said. "The kind Adrian can't get around."
I hated him a little for being right.
"Fine," I said. "Let's do it."
Damien's mouth curved—not into a smile, exactly, but into something like satisfaction. "Welcome to the game, Isla."
Chapter 3 — The Public Showdown
We rode the rest of the way in silence. When the car slid into the underground garage, security waved us through two checkpoints like we were heads of state. Hazel hopped out first, already barking into a headset. I followed Damien through a service corridor lined with gray doors and fluorescent lights, the backstage veins of a building that never slept.
The "war room" sat at the end: a rectangular space with three long tables, four mounted screens, and a spread of coffee, water, and things that passed for food only if you had no taste buds. Half a dozen people looked up when we walked in—comms, legal, analytics. A woman with a sharp bob and a sharper stare stood first.
"Mariah," she said, offering her hand to me. "Head of Comms. You were excellent."
"Thank you," I said, and meant it. Compliments feel different when they come from someone who doesn't hand them out like pens.
She pointed at the nearest screen. A dashboard showed charts, spikes, and a river of hashtags. "We've captured the top three: #CrossVoss, #PublicShowdown, #AdrianMeltdown. Sentiment's 68% positive and climbing. The kiss clip is everywhere, but the cutaway to Adrian's face is performing even better."
"Of course it is," Hazel muttered, settling into a chair like a general conquering terrain. "People love to watch a man trip over his ego."
Mariah nodded. "We're pushing the official line: 'Strategic partnership built on mutual respect.' We'll leak two candid shots later—no PDA, just teamwork, hands on a table, heads bent. It calms the romance obsessives and feeds the power-couple narrative."
"Good," Damien said, checking one of the screens. "What about Blackwell?"
"Statement just hit," Mariah replied, tapping a key. A press release flashed up. BLACKWELL INDUSTRIES CONDEMNS STUNT AT RAVENCORP; QUESTIONS VOSS INTEGRITY.
I read the first paragraph. It used words like concern and regret and stability. The subtext was: She's impulsive. She's reckless. She's not fit to lead.
"Predictable," I said.
"Wait for it," Mariah murmured, scrolling. The last line read: We will take appropriate legal steps to protect confidential information shared in good faith during prior merger discussions.
Legal steps. Confidential information. The warning was aimed at me, and it was designed to sound like I'd already done something wrong.
"They're baiting you," Hazel said. "Don't bite."
I didn't. But my jaw tightened anyway. "Draft me a response," I said. "Short. Clear. One sentence."
Mariah's hands hovered over the keyboard. "Go."
I didn't think. I didn't need to. "We build, we don't beg."
She typed it and looked up, eyes bright. "That's good."
"Add my name to it," I said. "And schedule a single TV appearance. Fifteen minutes, live. No panel, no crossfire circus. One-on-one."
Damien slid his phone into his pocket and studied me like I'd just added an interesting number to a spreadsheet. "You're enjoying this," he said.
"I'm remembering I know how to play," I said.
"Same thing," he replied.
The door opened and a junior analyst stuck in her head, cheeks flushed. "Sorry—urgent. Blackwell filed a court notice. Not a suit yet, but a preservation demand for any communications between Ms. Voss and Mr. Cross prior to today."
"So they can imply I was 'colluding' before the breakup," I said. "Cute."
"Let legal handle it," Damien said to the room. Then, to me: "Walk with me."
We cut back into the hallway. The sound of the war room faded behind the heavy door. For a second it was just our footsteps and the hum of the building.
"You don't have to do the live interview," he said. "We've already won this news cycle."
"I want it," I said. "And I know the host I want."
He waited.
"Anya Rhodes," I said. "Even when she hates you, she hates you politely."
He nodded once. "Done."
We stepped into the elevator. The doors slid shut. In the mirrored panel I caught both our reflections: his composed, unreadable; mine steady, chin up, hair still perfect even after heat, lights, and everyone's opinions. A strand had escaped near my temple. Without thinking, he reached and smoothed it back behind my ear. The touch was quick, almost clinical, but my skin still registered it like a spark.
"Optics," he said, and it wasn't an apology.
"Right," I said, eyes on the floor indicator.
The doors opened to the private entrance. Two security guards flanked the corridor that led to the street. When we stepped outside, the late light hit like a flash. So did the actual flashes—paparazzi had clustered even here, the kind that smelled a back door and staked it out.
"Isla! Is the engagement real?"
"Damien, when's the wedding?"
"Adrian says you violated—"
"Ms. Voss, are you pregnant?" someone yelled, because there's always that guy.
I didn't break stride. But one of them stepped backward without looking and collided with me, a hard shoulder into my hip. I stumbled a fraction. Damien's arm came around me, pulling me in, turning so the impact hit him instead. His body took the jolt; mine barely felt it.
"That's enough," he said to the crowd—still low, still even, somehow colder than shouting. The guards pushed the line of cameras back two feet. Those two feet were enough.
We reached the car. Hazel slid in on the other side, breathless and victorious. "Anya is set," she said. "Nineteen minutes. We'll go live from Studio 3. It's five blocks from here. Plenty of time."
"Plenty," I echoed, though my pulse had picked up again for reasons I didn't feel like naming.
The studio was an icebox under too much lighting. Anya Rhodes shook my hand with that smooth, practiced warmth famous anchors sell better than anyone. "We'll keep it clean," she promised. "Tough, but clean."
"I wouldn't want it any other way," I said.
We sat. The countdown ran. The red light came on. Anya opened with a package—rehearsal‑smooth b‑roll of the press conference, the kiss, Adrian walking out, the headline crawl already crowning the day THE PUBLIC SHOWDOWN.
"Ms. Voss," she began, voice honeyed but sharp, "you say this is about business. The kiss suggests otherwise."
I smiled once, slow. "If we sign a deal on a table, it's business. If we sign it on a stage, it's still business. The lighting just makes it look noisier."
"And Mr. Blackwell's accusation that you are retaliating?"
"I'm not retaliating," I said. "I'm moving forward. In this city, that looks like retaliation if you're standing still."
Anya's eyes warmed by half a degree. "He claims you're risking shareholder stability."
"I am the shareholder stability," I said simply. "We build. We don't beg."
Hazel flashed me a thumbs‑up from behind the camera. On my left, off‑set, Damien stood with his arms folded, face expressionless, gaze fixed on me like I was the only data point that mattered.
Anya's last question cut closer. "Rumors say there are… unresolved matters concerning your past. Does this move put a target on your back?"
"Every woman in power has a target on her back," I said. "The solution isn't to shrink. It's to aim."
The red light blinked off. Anya stood, squeezed my hand again. "That line will replay for a week," she said approvingly. "You were good."
"Thank you," I said, and meant that too.
We stepped back into the corridor. Hazel shivered theatrically. "I think I felt three publishers offering you a book deal through the walls."
"Delete their emails," I said.
On our way out, a runner jogged up with a small envelope. "This arrived at reception for Ms. Voss."
"No hand‑offs," one of Damien's security said automatically, stepping in. "All materials get screened."
"It's fine," I said, taking it. The paper was plain, no return address, my name printed in neat block letters. When I slid a fingernail under the flap, Hazel made a soft sound somewhere between warning and curiosity.
Inside was a single photocopied page. Not a letter. A ledger. Old. A line item highlighted with a thin pen stroke: Discretionary transfer — Voss Family Trust — orphanage fund. Next to it, a date. Eighteen years ago. And a memo field that made my stomach drop: Placement settlement — I.V.
Hazel leaned over my shoulder. "Isla," she breathed. "Is that…"
My phone buzzed in my hand. Unknown number. Stop playing with wolves you don't know, the message read. Ask Cross what happened the night your father changed his will.
I looked up. Damien was watching me, reading everything from my face because I was not doing a great job of hiding it.
"What is it?" he asked.
I passed him the page and held out the phone so he could read the text. His eyes flicked over both. Nothing changed in his expression…but something locked into place behind it.
"We're leaving," he told security. To me: "My office. Now."
"Why?" Hazel demanded, already defensive.
"Because whoever sent this wants her rattled," he said, still calm, still even. "We don't rattle where they can see it."
We moved. Back through the studio, into the car, through streets where the sky was turning the color of metal polished by a thousand hands. I held the photocopy like it might burn a hole through my skin.
"You knew," I said finally, when the car door thumped shut and the city noise dropped two notches.
"I knew pieces," he said. "Not this specific line item. Not that memo."
"And the text?" I asked. "What happened the night my father changed his will?"
He looked ahead, the river sliding by outside like a dark ribbon. "We'll talk when we're upstairs," he said. "Not here."
"Is it that bad?" Hazel asked, for once dropping the sarcasm.
"It's that complicated," he said.
We pulled into the RavenCorp garage again. Security surrounded us like a moving wall. In the elevator, the mirrored panel gave me back a face that looked composed and a little too pale. Damien stood beside me, hands at his sides, jaw tight enough to cut glass. Hazel rocked on her heels, eyes flicking between us the way you watch a storm radar.
The doors opened to his floor. We walked past the reception desk, where the receptionist pretended not to see the way I gripped the paper, into his office with its clean lines and disciplined light.
He shut the door. The room went quiet as a held breath.
"Tell me," I said.
He nodded once, slow, as if deciding something heavy. "It wasn't just a change," he said softly. "It was a reversal. And the man who delivered the papers that night didn't work for your family."
"Who did he work for?" I asked, even though the answer was already forming and I hated the shape of it.
Damien's eyes met mine, steel on steel. "Blackwell."
The word hung between us like a final flashbulb.
I didn't sit. I didn't sway. I didn't break. I folded the photocopy, slid it back into the envelope, and tucked it into my bag like I was sheathing a blade.
"All right," I said, my voice steady. "Then let's make sure they regret sending it."
Damien's mouth moved—almost a smile, almost approval. "Now," he said, "you sound like me."
"Temporary condition," I replied. "Don't get attached."
He didn't answer. He just stepped closer, not touching, but close enough that I could see the tiny nick along his jaw again, the one a careful razor had lost to a stubborn angle.
"You did well today," he said.
"I know," I said, and this time I did. "Tomorrow we do better."
Outside, the sky broke open into a sudden, silver rain. It hammered the glass in a clean, relentless rhythm. The city blurred. The lights sharpened. Somewhere below, cameras still hunted and headlines still scrolled. Somewhere across the river, Adrian was already plotting his next move.
I checked my phone. Messages stacked. Calls waiting. The last notification was simple: Gala wardrobe confirmed. Arrival: 6:30 PM. I imagined the stage, the lights, the city watching, and the way a kiss can be both a tactic and a truth.
"Isla," Damien said, and I looked up.
"What?"
He held my gaze. "Get some sleep."
"Tell the city to stop talking," I said. "Then I will."
His mouth tugged, the ghost of a real smile. "I'll work on it."
I turned toward the door, and his hand lifted—just an inch, as if he might touch my arm again, as if he might steady me though I wasn't swaying. He didn't. His hand fell. I left the office with Hazel at my side and the envelope tucked against my ribs like a secret that would not stay quiet.
As the elevator doors slid shut, the rain hit the building harder—as if the sky itself was applauding the show, or warning us for Act Two.
Either way, I was ready.