Leaving the Golden Cage

Brook swirled the remaining liquid in her martini glass.

The ice cubes clinked against the crystal, a sharp sound that did nothing to settle the heavy nausea churning in her stomach.

The bartender slid a black leather checkbook across the polished wood.

He asked if she needed him to call an Uber.

Brook shook her head without looking up.

Her vision was locked entirely on her phone, which lay face down on the sticky surface of the bar.

The screen lit up against the dark wood.

An Instagram push notification flashed across the locked screen.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she swiped to open the app.

It was a new story posted by Katy Vaughn.

The photo showed Damon standing next to Isadora Sanders at an Ivy League alumni gala.

They were raising their champagne glasses, and Katy had added a caption hinting that wedding bells were right around the corner.

Brook felt her lungs stop working.

A heavy block of ice settled in her chest, making it impossible to draw a full breath.

She grabbed her glass and swallowed the rest of the martini in one gulp.

The sharp botanicals of the gin burned a path down her throat, but it was nothing compared to the suffocating ache expanding in her chest.

A low murmur of commotion rippled from the entrance of the lounge.

The loud, obnoxious Wall Street traders at the front tables suddenly went completely silent and stepped aside.

A blast of cold air from the open door hit Brook, making her shiver.

She lifted her head and looked past the dim neon signs.

Her eyes collided with a pair of dark, bottomless eyes that carried a terrifying amount of pressure.

Damon Vaughn walked straight toward her.

He wore a custom-tailored black suit that seemed to absorb the dim light of the room.

He brought a freezing aura with him that demanded absolute obedience.

Brook instinctively shrank her shoulders back.

She reached for her handbag, a desperate physical need to escape this suffocating space taking over her body.

Damon reached her before she could slide off the barstool.

His large hand clamped down on her wrist with the precision of a steel trap.

The freezing metal of his Patek Philippe watch pressed hard against her bare skin.

He leaned down until his face was inches from her ear.

Why are you not answering your phone.

His voice was a low rumble meant only for her, his hot breath brushing against the sensitive skin of her neck.

Brook inhaled the familiar scent of cedarwood radiating from his skin.

Beneath the cedar, she caught the faintest trace of a stranger's expensive floral perfume.

Her stomach violently flipped over again.

She yanked her arm, trying to break his iron grip.

I am not obligated to be on standby for you twenty-four hours a day.

Her voice came out cold and flat.

Damon narrowed his eyes, the darkness in them shifting into something dangerous.

He pulled a hundred-dollar bill from his pocket and tossed it onto the wet bar counter.

He ignored her pulling away and dragged her toward the exit, his arm wrapping tightly around her waist to half-carry her.

The biting wind of Manhattan's first snow hit her face the second they stepped outside.