Chapter 165: The Devil’s Woman Is Being Taken

The private alcove seemed to shrink as Freddy Gilbert and Lady Genevieve Cross arrived, their entourages lingering just beyond the curtained archway.

​Damian didn’t rush to remove his hand from beneath the table. Slowly, deliberately, his thumb stroked once more against the bare, heated curve of Ana’s inner thigh before he withdrew, smoothing the midnight-silk of her gown with unbearable composure.

He leaned back, one arm resting lazily behind her across the velvet cushions, projecting an aura of bored, untouchable supremacy.

​"Damian," Freddy Gilbert rumbled, offering a stiff, patronizing nod. The older man reeked of dry gin, bespoke tailoring, and old-money complacency. "Quite the dramatic resurrection tonight. Though I must say, the financial columns painted a far grimmer picture of your weekend."

​"Financial columns are written by cowards who trade on gossip, Freddy," Damian replied, his gravelly voice smooth, entirely unaffected.

​Lady Genevieve stepped forward, draped in ice-blue silk and pearls, her sharp, heavily contoured eyes flicking over Anastasia with thinly veiled condescension. She looked at Ana not as an equal, but as an expensive trinket Damian had retrieved from the bargain bin to distract from his hemorrhaging stock.

​"And Anastasia," Genevieve drawled, her smile sharp as broken crystal. "How utterly delightful to see you back on the Sterling arm. One must admire a woman who knows when to forgive... particularly when the settlement jewels are this exquisite."

​The insult was precise, designed to reduce Ana to a kept woman blinded by emeralds.

​Beside her, Damian’s jaw tightened, his obsidian eyes chilling to murder. His hand shifted on the back of the settee, preparing to dismantle the woman where she stood.

​Ana didn’t let him.

​She laid her manicured hand lightly over Damian’s chest... an effortless, fluid gesture that commanded his silence while keeping his lethal temper leashed.

She rose to her feet, smooth and serpentine, her backless midnight silk gown catching the golden glow of the chandeliers. She closed the distance between herself and Genevieve, tilting her head with a smile so radiant it felt like the flash of a blade.

​"How kind of you to notice, Lady Genevieve," Ana murmured, her tone velvet-soft, carrying with effortless elegance. "Though I’ve always found that public perception requires far more maintenance than fine jewelry. For instance, your much-publicized ’Aethel Green’ luxury renewable initiative. The cross platform consumer metrics over the last quarter must be keeping you up at night."

​Genevieve’s polished smile faltered, her shoulders stiffening. "I beg your pardon?"

​"Oh, come now. We’re all friends here," Ana continued smoothly, stepping half an inch closer, holding Genevieve’s trapped gaze.

"Your PR firm framed it as a revolutionary shift for legacy wealth, but my marketing analytics team tracked the consumer conversion on your flagship launch: a staggering thirty-eight percent drop among the demographic that actually buys into luxury sustainability. In marketing, Lady Genevieve, that isn’t a transition. It’s an autopsy."

​A dead, suffocating silence dropped over the alcove. Genevieve looked as though she had been struck across the face, her throat bobbing as color drained from her cheeks.

​"Our European rollout begins in two weeks," Ana added, her voice dropping into a lethal, conspiratorial purr.

"The Sterling global marketing network reaches forty million vetted high net worth consumers across three continents. Back the buyout bloc tonight, Genevieve, and I will hand you our international launch channels to save your sinking portfolio. Walk away... and your green venture dies quietly in the dark before winter."

​Genevieve opened her mouth, but nothing came out. The poise, the high society sneer... completely eviscerated.

​Behind them, Freddy Gilbert let out an uneasy, dry cough. He stepped in, attempting to play the seasoned patriarch, deliberately trying to shut Ana out of the conversation.

​"Now see here, young lady," Gilbert scoffed, gesturing toward Damian. "Corporate restructuring isn’t played out over party banter. Damian, let’s step out onto the terrace for a cigar. Men of our standing need to discuss the real valuation of those dumped shares before I even consider taking on your board’s mess."

"Men of your standing, Freddy?" Ana murmured, a low, breathy laugh slipping past her red lips.

​She didn’t sound angry. In fact, she looked thoroughly entertained, tilting her head with the amused indulgence of an older sister watching a toddler boast about building a sandcastle.

​"Oh, darling, let’s not pretend we’re on the trading floor of the London exchange," she purred, taking a delicate, unhurried sip of her champagne. Her hazel eyes sparkled with genuine merriment as she stepped casually into Gilbert’s space, the heirloom emeralds at her throat catching the amber chandelier light.

​"You mean men who rely on their publicists to sweep up after them?" She teased, her tone conversational, almost conspiratorial, as if sharing an inside joke. "Or perhaps men who conveniently forget who buried the European tabloid leaks regarding little Beatrice’s offshore trust fund scandal three months ago?"

​Gilbert froze, the pompous color draining from his face as his fingers seized against his crystal tumbler.

​"My marketing team killed that story before the Associated Press wire even drafted a headline, Freddy," Ana chuckled softly, shaking her head with affectionate pity. "I spared your family name because it made our quarterly optics look tidy. But you know how fast paced our industry is... favors in this city don’t come with lifetime warranties."

​She reached out, her manicured fingertips smoothing a speck of lint from the lapel of his tailored tuxedo with effortless poise.

​"So let’s skip the cigar, the posturing, and the discount hunt," she smiled warmly, her voice pure, melodic velvet beneath the soft orchestral strings. "You’re going to absorb the second tranche of shares at full market value when Damian executes the purge. You’ll sign the intent before the dessert cart comes around, we’ll all toast to an extraordinary partnership, and Beatrice’s little Mediterranean holiday stays private. It really is a win win, don’t you think?"

​Gilbert swallowed hard, his throat bobbing as he stared at her radiant, smiling face, utterly disarmed by how effortlessly she had tied a silk noose around his neck while barely raising her voice.

​Behind them, Damian watched her, his obsidian gaze dark with intoxicating pride. She wasn’t just a fire to be contained; she was wielding the flames with a laugh on her lips.

Freddy Gilbert managed a stiff, dry chuckle, raising his hands in defeat. "Remind me never to cross your communications division, Damian. The woman is sharper than a surgical blade."

​"Far sharper," Lady Genevieve conceded, though the sting in her eyes was masked by a tight, professional respect. She turned toward Damian, setting her flute aside to lean in. "If the green energy international channels are guaranteed in the secondary covenant, Cross Conglomerate will absorb the initial twenty percent at standard valuation. But we want preferred distribution rights across the Pacific Rim."

​Damian didn’t hesitate, his gravelly voice smooth and authoritative as he commanded the table. "Fifteen percent premium on dividend priority, locked for eighteen months. Freddy takes the second tranche with identical covenants. My restructuring team executes the transfer orders before the Frankfurt exchange opens."

​"Agreed," Gilbert sighed, a mixture of begrudging admiration and relief settling over his weathered features. "You have Gilbert Holdings’ signature before the clock strikes midnight."

​"To an extraordinary partnership, then," Ana smiled brilliantly, signaling a passing waiter with a fluid flick of her wrist. She took four fresh flutes of Dom Pérignon, handing them around with effortless grace. "To stability, legacy, and leaving old liabilities in the dust."

​Across the sprawling expanse of the ballroom, Robert Xander and Gregory Hall stood frozen by the grand marble staircase, their knuckles white against their crystal glasses. They watched in sheer, sickening panic as Freddy Gilbert and Lady Genevieve clinked flutes with Damian Sterling.

The traitors’ suicide coup had evaporated in less than twenty minutes; without Gilbert’s capital to trigger the margin call, Monday morning meant federal regulatory audits and absolute, inescapable ruin. Xander whispered something frantic into Hall’s ear, the sweat glistening along his temples as he vanished into the private security corridor.

​Before the celebratory toast could even settle, a smooth, amused voice cut through the alcove.

​"Careful, gentlemen. You’re letting the prettiest player at the table do all the heavy lifting."

​Mike Delgado stepped out from the terrace shadow. The thirty-two-year-old tech titan looked effortlessly rakish, his tuxedo jacket unbuttoned, his dark eyes sparkling with brazen intrigue.

Ignoring Damian’s sudden, lethal stillness entirely, Delgado stepped directly into Ana’s personal space, offering a slow, insolent bow.

​"A toast is fine, former Mrs. Sterling... or should I say, Anastasia Vance?" Delgado murmured, extending an open palm. "The orchestra just started a waltz, and I believe you owe me a dance for being the most beautiful woman in the room tonight."

​Ana felt Damian’s hand stiffen at her side, a violent, suffocating pressure radiating off his broad frame. "Excuse me?"

But the game was already in motion.

Offering Delgado a radiant, daring smile, she placed her gloved hand in his. "I would be delighted, Mr. Delgado." Tonight is getting interesting indeed.