Page 88 of Under His Control

I say nothing, a beat of silence passing.

“You ever wonder,” he says softly, “what Papa saw when he first stood up here?”

I don’t respond.

“I was eight,” Damas goes on. “You were eleven. He brought us here before it was finished—when it was just concrete and rebar. He stood right where I’m standing now, looking out over the city, promising it’d all belong to us one day.”

He brings the glass to his lips and sips slowly.

“You believed him. I watched it happen. Watched you shape yourself into the perfect son, the golden boy with ice in his veins. While I…” he finally glances at me, the sunset painting a jagged line across his cheekbone, “I realized there were only two options: Follow you and play second fiddle or take what should’ve been mine.”

His eyes glance toward the door. “Shame she didn’t stay. I was going to offer her a drink. Thought we could toast to old secrets.”

My pulse spikes and I step closer.

“Did she say where she was going?” I ask, my voice low and dangerous.

Damas smiles. “Why would she tell me? That’s the trouble with smart women, Anatoly. You can’t keep them in cages, no matter how gilded the bars.”

I close the distance between us until we’re eye to eye. I don’t blink. Neither does he.

“Why are you still here?”

He props an elbow on the railing. “The family is in crisis. I thought you might need some brotherly advice.”

“What I need is for you to leave and to drink your own damn whiskey in your own damn penthouse.”

“You sound tense.” A cocky smirk forms on his face.

“I wonder why that is brother. You spoke out of turn.”

“I told a truth she wasn’t willing to,” he counters.

A muscle jumps in my jaw. “That’s between Taylor and me. It has nothing to do with you.”

He tsks. “It’s between the two of you, father’s will, theHospitium, our legacy…tick-tock.”

“Get out, Damas.”

He chuckles at the command. “Tell me something first. How deep are you in with her, Anatoly? Deep enough to trade the hotel for her barren womb?”

I vault toward him. The tumbler smashes to the ground, whiskey spraying across the balcony. My fists bunch in his lapel, yanking him up to eye level. “One more word about my wife, and I’ll feed you that broken crystal.”

He laughs. “There he is. The wolf everyone fears.”

“I said get out.” I shove him hard. He staggers at first, but quickly rights himself, smoothing his pristine suit.

“I can’t believe you’re willing to lose everything for a woman, one that cannot give you an heir.” He straightens his cuff links. “Good news though, theHospitiumwill still stay in the family. I’ll keep her warm.” He gives me a wink, then heads for the door, footsteps unhurried. “Enjoy your empty castle,?bratets.”

He closes the door with a smirk. Silence rushes back in—sharp and accusatory. I stare at the shattered glass, the spreading whisky, and realize I’m breathing like I’ve just run ten miles.

I grab my phone, hoping she’s responded. Nothing.

I check her phone location, it’s disabled. Smart woman.

Only one other person might know where she’d flee.

Charles Weatherford’s office light glows brightly from the mezzanine—old habits from decades of running theHospitium. I ride the elevator down and rap twice.