(Lena’s POV)

“Miss Marlowe is here as my guest,” Damian said, his voice carrying over the room like a blade. “Questions about her are questions about me. And as you all know…” His gaze swept the journalists, cold and cutting. “…I answer when I choose.”

The ballroom was still.

For one breathless second, even the cameras seemed to pause, as if the people behind them weren’t sure whether to press their luck or retreat.

My pulse thudded in my throat. He’d said it ...