Semua Bab Heels & Handcuffs - Club Gold Trilogy: Bab 51 - Bab 60

Damien. The warehouse on the south side of the city smelled like rust and blood and bad decisions. Perfect. I stood in the center of the empty space, Marcus at my right shoulder and three of my best men positioned strategically around the perimeter. Viktor Volkov would arrive in less than ten minutes, and every instinct I possessed screamed that this was a setup. Good. Let him try. My phone buzzed—a text from Angel. *Please be careful. I love you.* The words hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest. She'd never said it before. Not like that. Not in those exact words. I typed back quickly: *I love you too. See you soon.* Because I would. I was walking out of here tonight, and I was going straight to her. "Boss," Marcus murmured. "Company incoming." The sound of engines cut through the night—multiple vehicles, which meant Viktor had brought backup despite this supposedly being a private meeting. Amateur move. It showed his hand too early. The warehouse doors rolled open, and V

Damien. Going legitimate was harder than I'd anticipated. Not the business side—that was relatively straightforward. Keith had set up a consulting firm years ago as a front for his own operations, and expanding it to absorb my assets was mostly a matter of paperwork and creative accounting. No, the hard part was letting go. "You're brooding again," Marcus observed from across my office at Club Gold. "I'm thinking." "You're brooding. There's a difference." He leaned back in his chair, studying me with those sharp eyes that had watched my back for the better part of a decade. "Having second thoughts?" "No." The answer came quickly, definitively. "This is the right move." "But?" I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "But I've been in this life since I was seventeen years old. Violence, power, control—that's all I've ever known. What if I'm not built for anything else?" "You think you're only good for breaking bones and making people afraid?" "Aren't I?" Marcus laughed—act

Damien. "You're overthinking this," Marcus said, watching me pace my office like a caged animal. "I'm not overthinking. I'm planning." "You've rewritten your proposal speech seventeen times. That's overthinking." I stopped pacing to glare at him. "How do you even know that?" "Because you've been muttering to yourself for the past two hours, and I can count." He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "Boss, she loves you. You could propose in a McDonald's parking lot and she'd still say yes." "Angel deserves better than a McDonald's parking lot." "Obviously. I'm just saying you don't need to scale Mount Rainier at sunset while a string quartet plays Bach." "I wasn't planning to scale anything," I muttered, though the string quartet idea had merit. The truth was, I'd been planning this proposal for weeks. Ever since that day at the museum when Angel had asked me to wait, to make it special. And I was determined to give her exactly that—something perfect, something worthy of th

Angela. The Victor Foundation gala was everything I'd dreamed of and more. The ballroom of the Regency Hotel sparkled with crystal chandeliers, and the cream of Chicago's society filled the space—politicians, philanthropists, business leaders, all gathered to support the cause that had become my passion. I stood at the entrance in a stunning emerald gown that Damien had commissioned specifically for tonight. The silk clung to my curves before flowing into an elegant train, and the deep V-neckline was just daring enough to command attention without crossing into scandalous territory. "You're radiant," Damien murmured beside me, his hand settling possessively on the small of my back. He looked devastating in his custom tuxedo, every inch the powerful billionaire businessman. "This is really happening," I breathed, watching the crowd mingle around displays showcasing the foundation's mission—providing scholarships and mentorship to young artists from underprivileged backgrounds. "Yo

Angela. The threatening letter arrived at the foundation office on a Tuesday morning. I was reviewing scholarship applications when my assistant, Jennifer, knocked hesitantly on my door, her face pale. "Ms. Greyson? This just came for you." She held out a plain manila envelope with my name typed on the front. No return address, no postmark—hand-delivered. Something about her expression made my stomach clench. "What's wrong?" "It just... it feels off. I probably should have had security check it first—" I took the envelope carefully, noting how her hands trembled slightly. "It's okay, Jennifer. Thank you." After she left, I stared at the envelope for a long moment. Then, telling myself I was being paranoid, I opened it. Inside was a single sheet of paper with a message composed of words cut from magazines, like something from a crime thriller: *LEAVE DAMIEN BLACK OR WATCH EVERYTHING YOU LOVE BURN.* My hands started shaking. I dropped the letter on my desk as if it had scorche