Chapter 80 Beneath Familiar Faces

The soft click of a lighter broke the silence in the marble drawing room. Damian stood beneath a chandelier of crystal and wrought iron, the fire in the hearth casting shadows along his jaw. He lit a cigarette with practiced ease, though he rarely smoked—it was more the ritual than the habit. Miles watched him from across the room, slouched in an armchair, arm still bound in a sling. "You know it's her," Miles said finally. "Even if the world thinks she's dead."