Chapter 4 The Cross-Examination

The temperature in the sun room plummeted to freezing.

Damian stood framed in the mahogany doorway, his long dark overcoat unbuttoned, rain mist glistening on the wool of his broad shoulders. His presence alone commanded the vast room, suffocating every breath of air.

His steel-gray eyes swept over the marble table, landing squarely on the thin manila folder resting between Isabelle and me.

"What daughters?" Damian repeated, stepping forward with deliberate, measured strides.

My heart hammered so violently against my ribs I was certain he could hear it. I sat frozen, every muscle locked tight beneath my navy sheath dress. If Damian opened that folder and saw my daughters' full legal names, photos, and birth certificates, the game was over before it began.

Isabelle, however, didn't flinch. She leaned back against the velvet chaise lounge, offering her fiancé a radiant, triumphant smile.

"I was just discussing the bridal procession with Ms. Winters," Isabelle said, her tone dripping with polished sweetness. "It turns out the twin flower girls in her promotional lookbook aren't hired models at all. They’re her own daughters. Four-year-old twins. Aren't they darling?"

Damian stopped at the edge of the table. He didn't look at Isabelle. His piercing gaze fixed entirely on me, heavy, intense, and suffocating.

"You have twins?" he asked quietly.

The question hung in the air like a blade. Under the table, my fingernails dug deep into the meat of my palms, using the sharp physical pain to keep my voice steady.

"I do, Mr. Blackwood," I said, meeting his gaze without a flicker of hesitation. "And as I was explaining to Miss Laurent, they are not for hire."

Isabelle let out a delicate, mocking chuckle. "Don't be dramatic, Ava. It's a high-society wedding, not a sweatshop. They'll wear custom miniature designer gowns and walk down a petal-strewn aisle. It’s an absolute honor."

"They are four years old," I countered, keeping my voice clipped and professional. "They are not props for a corporate spectacle. My family remains strictly separate from my work."

A flicker of annoyance flashed across Isabelle's face. Society vendors did not speak to her with such defiance. Her jaw tightened, the mask of sweet innocence slipping.

"Damian," Isabelle said, turning toward him with an expectant pout. "Tell her. We agreed the visual aesthetic needs to be untouchable."

Damian didn't take her side. In fact, he hadn't looked away from my face for a single second. His eyes narrowed slightly, tracing the sharp line of my jaw, the set of my shoulders, searching for something elusive beneath my composed facade.

"Where is their father, Ms. Winters?" Damian asked suddenly.

The question hit me like a physical blow, but I didn't let my eyes drop. The bitter memory of our last morning together flashed behind my retinas—the security guards holding me back, the cold rain soaking my clothes, Damian staring down at me from behind the tinted glass of his limousine, convinced I was nothing more than an opportunistic thief.

"He isn't in their lives," I answered, each word sharp as broken glass.

"Did he pass away?" Isabelle asked with faux sympathy.

"No," I said, keeping my gaze locked straight onto Damian’s gray eyes. "He abandoned them before they took their first breath. He was a man consumed by pride and paranoia. A man who valued his corporate empire far more than the people who loved him."

The room fell dead silent.

For a fraction of a second, something dark and volatile rippled across Damian’s features. His throat moved in a hard swallow. He didn't know the truth, but the raw venom in my voice had struck a nerve deep inside his armor.

"Then they have no legal guardian other than you," Damian said, his voice dropping into a lower, harsher octave.

"None," I said. "Which means their presence at this wedding is entirely my decision. Miss Laurent, if my refusal breaches your expectations, you are free to terminate the contract. My team will pack our files and leave."

I reached forward to pull my presentation binder off the table, ready to walk away. If I lose the contract, I lose my revenge. But protecting Lily and Rose was worth ten thousand revenges.

Before my hand could touch the leather binder, Damian’s long fingers came down against the table, pinning the edge of the file.

His knuckles were pale, his grip unyielding. The heat radiating from his hand was mere inches from mine.

"No one is terminating the contract," Damian said coldly.

Isabelle blinked, clearly caught off guard. "Damian?"

"Ms. Winters was hired because she is the best in the business," Damian said, not breaking eye contact with me. "And she is right. Children should not be coerced into corporate theater."

Relief flooded my chest so fast my knees felt weak. I had won. My daughters were safe from his sight.

"However," Damian continued smoothly, his voice dropping to a dangerous, silky hum, "if Isabelle has her heart set on this specific aesthetic, I see no reason why a compromise cannot be reached."

My blood turned to ice. "Mr. Blackwood—"

"A six-hundred-guest wedding involving foreign dignitaries and high-ranking officials requires unprecedented security protocols," Damian said, turning his back to Isabelle as he leaned slightly toward me. "Every individual participating in the procession must be vetted. No exceptions."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his black smartphone, tapping the screen twice with practiced efficiency.

"I just messaged Marcus Vance, my director of global security," Damian said.

The name hit my ears like a detonator.

Marcus Vance.

Marcus had been Damian’s chief of security for a decade. He was the very man who had personally packed my belongings into those two cardboard boxes five years ago. He was the man who had fingerprinted me, processed my exit NDA, and archived my retinal scans into the Blackwood private database.

"Marcus will arrive at your Brooklyn brownstone tonight at seven," Damian commanded, his steel-gray eyes boring into mine with relentless authority. "He will personally conduct full background checks, verify the children’s birth registries, and take their biometric clearances for the event database."

Damian slipped his phone back into his pocket, his lips curving into a ghost of a ruthless smile.

"I suggest you have their birth certificates ready, Ms. Winters. Marcus doesn't like to be kept waiting. And neither do I."