Chapter 4 - The Master Suite
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Damon’s brow furrowed sharply at my words, his hand freezing against my damp cheek. Before he could demand an answer, Harrison, the elderly butler who had always slipped extra fruit into the kitchen for Sophie, hurried into the room carrying a leather medical bag, followed closely by the family’s private physician.
For the next hour, Damon refused to leave Sophie’s side by even an inch. I sat on the velvet settee watching the most feared man in Manhattan hold a three-year-old’s tiny hand while the doctor cleaned her scraped knee and applied a colorful cartoon bandage.
"Does it still hurt, sweetheart?" Damon asked softly, his voice gentler than I had heard it since our days walking through Washington Square Park.
Sophie shook her head shyly, studying his sharp cheekbones and dark hair with wide, curious eyes. She reached out with her free hand and poked the dimple in his chin—the exact same dimple that appeared whenever she smiled.
"You have my eyes," Sophie whispered in awe. "Mommy said only angels in heaven had eyes like mine."
Damon closed his eyes briefly, swallowing hard as if a blade had been twisted straight into his chest. When he opened them, he looked directly at me over the top of our daughter’s head.
"Your mommy was half right, little one," he murmured, lifting her effortlessly into his strong arms. "Come on. Let’s show you your new room. It has a window that looks right over Central Park, and tomorrow morning, I’m having a white piano delivered just for you."
Sophie gasped, wrapping her small arms around his neck as naturally as if she had known him her entire life. Seeing them together made my knees go weak with a devastating mix of relief and terror.
The West Wing master suite was larger than the entire cramped apartment I had rented in Queens before losing everything. Sunlight poured through floor-to-ceiling windows onto cream silk carpets, a canopy bed piled with cashmere blankets, and an adjoining nursery already being stocked by three maids carrying mountains of plush toys and designer children’s clothes.
By eight o’clock that evening, exhausted from tears and excitement, Sophie fell fast asleep in the center of the massive bed, still clutching her battered velvet elephant.
I pulled the silk duvet up to her chin, turned down the bedside lamp, and stepped out into the adjoining sitting room—only to find Damon waiting for me by the unlit fireplace. He had removed his suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, revealing the lean, powerful forearms I remembered all too well. A crystal tumbler of amber whiskey sat untouched on the mantle beside him.
May you like
He walked over and turned the brass lock on the sitting room door with a definitive click.
"She's asleep," Damon said quietly, turning to face me. "Now, no more running, Elena. Tell me what you meant downstairs. Who threatened my life four years ago?"
