The private VIP suite at L'Étoile was designed to be an intimidation free-zone. It was dripping in emerald velvet, gold-leaf accents, and the soothing, ambient scent of roasted espresso and lavender.
It was a beautiful room.
Waiting by the coffee table was a young Vanity Fair journalist. She was dressed in a trendy, oversized beige blazer, holding a glowing iPad, looking eager and prepared to ask hard-hitting questions about the East River bridge incident.
She looked up when the doors clicked shut.
Her eyes landed on Damien.
He stood there in his midnight-blue Tom Ford suit, radiating the kind of dark, lethal power that usually came with a warning label. His silver hair caught the dim, moody lighting of the suite. His golden eyes—blank, cold, and entirely devoid of human empathy—locked onto her.
The journalist's brain executed a hard, violent reboot.
Damien opened his mouth, his voice a deep, resonant, impossibly smooth baritone.
"Good afternoon."
