Chapter 307: Blood on the Dance Floor

The music ground to a screeching, dissonant halt as the attention of the ballroom whipped toward the VIP section.

The drunk investor, still grinning foolishly with his clammy hand hovering near Aria’s waist, turned his head toward the sound of the shattering glass.

"Whoa, buddy, watch the—"

He never finished the sentence.

Damien crossed the space separating them like a phantom.

Before the investor could even blink, Damien’s hand shot out, grabbing the man by the lapels of his suit jacket. Damien lifted the grown man entirely off his feet and violently hurled him backward.

The investor flew through the air, crashing hard into a high-top cocktail table. The table splintered beneath his weight, sending champagne flutes and ice buckets crashing to the floor.

But Damien wasn’t finished.

He didn’t give the man a second to recover. Damien was on him instantly. He grabbed the man by the collar, dragging him halfway up from the wreckage, and drove a fist into the man’s face.

CRACK.

The sound of bone shattering echoed through the dead-silent ballroom.

The man went limp instantly, his eyes rolling back into his head, but Damien didn’t drop him. He pulled his arm back and delivered a second blow, his knuckles splitting the skin of the investor’s cheek.

The crowd erupted into chaos. Women shrieked, backing away in horror. Men shouted for security.

Aria stood frozen on the edge of the dance floor, the alcohol buzzing in her veins instantly evaporating into a wave of paralyzing ice.

She stared at the scene unfolding in front of her. She knew Damien had a violent temper. He even had a looming court date for breaking the legs of the security at Elysium. She had accepted that he was a dangerous man.

But hearing about it, and actually witnessing the brutality of it in real-time, were two very different things.

Damien drew his fist back for another hit, his chest heaving, his golden eyes devoid of human empathy.

If that fist connected with the unconscious man’s skull again, the investor was going to die right there on the floor.

The realization snapped Aria out of her shock.

"Damien, no!" Aria screamed, her voice tearing at her throat.

She sprinted forward, her feet slipping slightly on the spilled champagne. She threw herself blindly onto his broad back, wrapping her arms around his neck and chest, physically weighing him down.

"Stop! Damien, please, look at me! Stop!" Aria cried, burying her face into his shoulder, her fingers digging desperately into his ruined white dress shirt. "You’re going to kill him! Let him go!"

Damien froze.

His fist hung suspended in the air, trembling with pent-up adrenaline. The feel of her arms around his neck, the frantic, panicked tone of her voice against his ear, acted like a bucket of ice water straight to his nervous system.

He dropped the investor.

The man slumped back onto the broken wood, completely unresponsive, his face a mangled, bloody mess.

Damien slowly stood up, bringing Aria with him. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling in jagged gasps. He turned his head, his wild, golden eyes locking onto Aria’s pale face.

The homicidal darkness in his gaze slowly began to recede, replaced by a deep exhaustion.

"He touched you," Damien gritted out, his voice hoarse, staring at her as if seeking justification for the carnage.

"I know," Aria whispered, her hands sliding down his arms to gently grip his bloody knuckles. "But it’s over. You stopped him."

"MOVE! CLEAR THE WAY!"

A swarm of paramedics, lugging a yellow stretcher and trauma bags, burst through the double doors of the ballroom. They rushed past the horrified onlookers, dropping to their knees beside the bleeding investor.

"He’s unresponsive! Pulse is thready!" a paramedic shouted, slapping an oxygen mask over the man’s bloody face. "We need to intubate! Let’s move him, now!"

Aria watched, her hands shaking, as they hoisted the man onto the stretcher. He was battling for his life, his chest barely rising as they sprinted him out of the room toward the waiting ambulance.

The wail of police sirens echoed from the street outside, growing louder until they stopped right in front of the building.

Four NYPD officers marched into the ballroom, their hands resting cautiously on their duty belts. They scanned the room, their eyes landing instantly on the blood-spattered billionaire standing in the center of the wreckage.

They recognized him immediately.

The officers didn’t draw their weapons. They didn’t even unclip their handcuffs. They approached Damien cautiously, visibly sweating under the crushing pressure of dealing with a man of his power and influence.

"Mr. Sinclair," the lead officer said, his voice tense but polite. "Sir, we have multiple calls regarding a severe assault. The victim is currently en route to Mount Sinai in critical condition."

The officer swallowed hard, glancing nervously at Damien’s bloody hands.

"I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you to accompany us down to the precinct, sir," the cop finished weakly.

Aria’s heart plummeted straight into her stomach.

Damien didn’t argue. He nodded, calm, as if the officer had just asked him for his autograph. He reached into the pocket of his trousers, pulling out a handkerchief, and began wiping the blood off his knuckles.

"Damien," Aria panicked, stepping in front of him. Her hands fluttered nervously over his chest. "Damien, what are we going to do?"

Damien tossed the bloody handkerchief onto a nearby table. He reached into his other pocket and pulled out his phone. He pressed it into Aria’s trembling hand.

"Call Julian," was all Damien instructed.

Aria looked down at the phone, a fresh wave of anxiety hitting her.

"Damien, it’s past midnight," Aria stammered, her voice pitching up with dread. "It’s Saturday morning! The courts are closed until Monday! You’re going to have to stay in a holding cell for the entire weekend!"

The thought of her husband, a man who possessed severe mysophobia, spending two nights in the disgusting cells of a police precinct made her feel physically sick.

"Don’t worry, Aria," Damien murmured, unfazed by the prospect. He leaned down, pressing a soft, reassuring kiss to her forehead.

He stepped back, turning to the terrified police officers.

"Lead the way," Damien commanded them.

The officers gestured toward the doors. They didn’t dare pull out their handcuffs. They gently, respectfully escorted him out of the ballroom, treating him less like a violent felony suspect and more like a visiting dignitary.

Aria stood frozen on the dance floor, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs as she watched his broad back disappear through the double doors.

Her hands were shaking uncontrollably. She looked down at the phone gripped tightly in her palm.

She needed to call Julian immediately.

But as she raised her thumb to swipe the screen, a sudden roadblock hit her.

’Wait,’ Aria thought frantically. ’What is his passcode?! Did he ever even tell me?!’

Her mind raced, trying to remember if she had ever seen him type it in.

Aria tapped the screen to wake the device. She brought the phone up to eye level, intending to just blindly guess his birthday or his social security number.

As the glowing screen illuminated her panicked face, the tiny, digital padlock icon resting at the very top of the display suddenly shivered.

Click.

The padlock popped open.

Aria froze.

She stared at the screen, dumbfounded. ℴ

Her breath hitched in her throat.

Damien had registered her biometrics into his device without ever saying a single word about it. She let out a shaky exhale, quickly opening the Contacts app.

She found Julian Cross’s name and tapped the call button.

She held the phone to her ear, listening to the dial tone ring through the chaotic noise of the panicked ballroom around her.

It rang only once.

"Damien?" Julian’s voice answered, groggy and thick with sleep.

Aria squeezed her eyes shut as she gripped the phone tighter.

"Julian," Aria whispered, her voice trembling uncontrollably. "Damien got arrested."