Chapter 154: The Devil Is Back To Being A Tyrant
"You spoke well in front of the board today, Anastasia," Damian said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly rasp that vibrated in the quiet hall. "You stood your ground, and you played your part as my wife to perfection."
His fingers slid down from her wrist to wrap around her palm, pulling her a step closer until her chest brushed the crisp fabric of his shirt. His free hand came up, his thumb pressing firmly against the center of her jaw, tilting her face higher under the harsh entryway lights.
"But do not mistake my indulgence for latitude," Damian murmured, his obsidian eyes narrowing with dark, possessive certainty.
"Living in the open does not mean you don’t have a leash to wander. You do not leave this penthouse without my personal detail. You do not make decisions without my explicit word, and you will stay by my side at all times."
Ana’s hazel eyes widened slightly at the sudden shift, her breath catching in her throat at the raw, suffocating proximity between them.
"Damian..."
"You are mine, little bird," Damian cut in, his tone flat, hard, and entirely devoid of compromise.
"I paid hundred million dollars to strip your father of your name, and I bled two bullets into my chest to keep you under my roof. You belong to me, not to anyone, not your family, and certainly not yourself. Get any thoughts of independent freedom out of your head right now."
He stared down at her for a long, heavy beat, waiting for the reality of his words to settle in her chest.
When she gave a small, breathless nod, the tight tension in his jaw fractionally eased. He didn’t release his hold on her chin, leaning down to press a slow, deliberate kiss against the soft curve of her throat before stepping back toward the hallway.
"Now fetch the antiseptic," Damian ordered calmly, his voice returning to its usual measured authority. "The bandages need changing."
Ana stood frozen for a second, the heat of his breath still lingering on her neck. Her initial surprise gave way to a sharp, familiar spark of defiance. Instead of cowering, she let out an exasperated sigh, crossing her arms over her chest as she watched him walk toward the master bath.
"Unbelievable," Ana grumbled under her breath, rolling her eyes as she trailed a few paces behind his broad shoulders. "One single victory in a boardroom and you’re right back to being an insufferable tyrant."
Damian paused at the threshold of the bathroom, unbuttoning his shirt with one hand, his dark eyes cutting back to look at her over his shoulder with a raised, mocking brow.
"Two days ago in the ICU, you were staring at me like I was your entire lifeline," Ana continued, her tone laced with dry sarcasm as she walked past him to pull the medical kit from the cabinet.
"Now that the bleeding has stopped and you’ve got your chair back, you remember you paid for me and decide it’s time to rattle the cage again."
She set the rolls of sterile gauze and antiseptic onto the polished marble counter with a deliberate, sharp clack.
Turning around, she met his unyielding gaze directly, refusing to look intimidated by his towering frame.
"Sit down on the bench, Mr. Sterling," Ana said dryly, gesturing firmly toward the seat. "Your ’possession’ has to patch up your stubborn ribs before you rip them open again giving your little ownership speeches."
A dangerous, amused smirk pulled at the corner of Damian’s lips. He didn’t break eye contact as he stripped off the ruined shirt, tossing it aside and taking a seat, entirely unfazed by her sharp tongue.
"You talk too much for a bought bird, Anastasia," Damian murmured, his voice a low, gravelly hum as he leaned back, his eyes locked onto her with unwavering, possessive intent. "Clean the wound."
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The black town car cut through the rain slicked city streets, the city lights reflecting across the tinted glass.
In the back seat, Clara sat with her laptop bag clutched tightly against her lap, her posture rigid as she watched the GPS route on her phone lead them away from the modest downtown inn she had booked.
"Julian, this isn’t the turn for the Midtown Motor Lodge," Clara said, her voice sharp with rising annoyance as she tapped the driver’s partition. "Tell him to turn around. I told you I’m staying there until the corporate housing stipend clears and I can sign a rental lease."
Julian didn’t even look up from the unredacted shipping manifests on his tablet. He leaned back against the leather seat, one leg crossed over the other, radiating calm indifference.
"You’re not staying in a twenty dollar a night motel, Clara," Julian replied smoothly. "The lock on the front door could be picked with a rusty paperclip, and the perimeter security consists of a sleepy night clerk."
"I am an independent forensic auditor, not a guest of the Montgomery dynasty," Clara snapped, turning to face him, her emerald eyes flashing. "I earn my own salary, and I pay for my own roof. I don’t need your charity, especially now when you’ve been cut off from your own family trust."
Julian paused, his jaw tightening slightly at the reminder of his father’s decree, but his voice remained entirely composed. He tossed the tablet onto the empty middle seat and turned his full, intense hazel gaze onto her.
"This isn’t charity. It’s basic survival," Julian said, his voice dropping into a low, uncompromising cadence. "Dante Sullivan just lost his twelve-million-dollar board puppet because you decrypted his Panamanian shell accounts on a public projector. He knows your name. He knows your face. The second you step into an unmonitored motel room alone, you become the easiest leverage he has to break this team."
The town car pulled smoothly into the underground private garage of Julian’s glass fronted high-rise, coming to a halt before a bank of biometric-locked elevators.
"You’re staying at my penthouse," Julian stated, opening his door and stepping out into the cool air before extending a hand toward her. "The building has a private security grid, an encrypted server line for your audit files, and two spare suites. You can grumble about your independence in the morning, but tonight, you’re staying where I can keep an eye on you."
Clara stared at his extended hand, caught between fury at his arrogance and the undeniable logic of his warning. With a sharp, exasperated breath, she shouldered her heavy bag, bypassed his hand entirely, and stepped out onto the concrete.
"Fine," Clara muttered, brushing past him toward the elevator doors. "But the moment Dante is behind bars, I am sending you an item wise bill for every single night of your overbearing hospitality."
A slow, self assured smirk touched Julian’s lips as he fell into step right beside her. "I’ll look forward to reviewing the charges, darling."
The elevator opened directly into Julian’s triplex penthouse... a palace of minimalist slate, skyline views, and eerie, half lit stillness.
Clara stepped out, her heels clicking on the cold polished stone. She expected a fleet of staff and an open bar. Instead, the sprawling kitchen was completely dark, and a stack of red-stamped final notices from private utilities sat prominently on the marble island.
Julian walked past her, shrugging out of his bespoke coat and tossing it over the nearest couch. He went straight to the refrigerator, pulled out two cold beers, and set a carton of leftover Thai takeout between a mess of shipping blueprints.
"Welcome to the high life," Julian said dryly, popping the bottle caps with a flick of his lighter. "Complimentary dinner is whatever the courier delivered yesterday before the Montgomery accounts froze."
Clara dropped her heavy laptop bag onto the counter, looking from the red stamped letters to Julian. The rich gloss was gone.
He looked exhausted, his tie loosened, his collar unbuttoned, standing in the middle of an empire he could no longer afford to power.
"You really are completely on your own, aren’t you?" Clara asked, the sharp defensiveness in her voice softening into raw curiosity.
"Every bloody dime," Julian said, taking a long pull from his beer. He leaned his hips back against the counter, his hazel eyes locking onto hers in the low light. "No safety net. No father to clean up the wreckage. Just whatever I can build back with these two hands."
Clara held his gaze for a second, feeling an unexpected thrum in her chest. She pulled the carton of noodles toward herself, grabbed a wooden fork, and took a seat on the counter stool.
"Good," Clara said bluntly, cracking a small, genuine smirk. "Trust fund playboys are insufferable anyway. Now show me those maritime route files... if we’re breaking your father’s chokehold, we do it before sunrise."
Julian’s lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile as he stepped in close, setting his laptop right beside hers. "Bossy. I like it."