Chapter 3They Can Hear Every Savage Thought

The following afternoon, Damian Cross arrived at the Harrington estate in person, flanked by two personal aides carrying embossed gift boxes.

The original author had dedicated three full pages to describing the man’s jawline—an exhausting sequence of adjectives about aristocratic cheekbones and predatory obsidian eyes that had made me fall asleep so hard my phone hit me square on the bridge of my nose. Seeing him now, clad in a bespoke charcoal Tom Ford suit, I felt nothing but an overwhelming urge to check my pockets for stolen goods.

Damian set a velvet case in front of Gwen, popping the brass latch to reveal a heavy Harry Winston diamond collar.

"A modest welcoming gift, Gwen," he murmured, his voice pitched to that low, bedroom frequency that romance heroines usually found intoxicating.

Eleanor glanced at her daughter, an anxious, hopeful flicker in her eyes.

According to the original script, today was the day the two families were supposed to formalize the betrothal. The Harringtons needed Cross’s capital to shore up their struggling commercial branch, while Damian needed the marriage to access the Harrington family's proprietary battery patents.

Everyone thought they were gaming the system. In reality, Gwen was the only casualty. Later in the novel, she had dropped to her knees, begging Damian to spare her ruined family, only for him to grip her chin and whisper: Beg for them one more time, and I'll make sure your brother’s life support is switched off.

Looking at Gwen’s cautious, still face, I couldn't help a private sigh.

Congratulations on the diamond choke-chain, sweetie.

Fast-track to a three-year domestic imprisonment package, complete with a traumatic miscarriage and eight hundred rounds of public humiliation courtesy of his vindictive ex.

Gwen’s hand, which had been reaching politely toward the velvet box, snapped back as if the velvet were on fire.

Eleanor turned completely white.

Damian frowned, noting the sudden chill. "Do you dislike the cut?"

Gwen pushed the box back across the marble table. "It's far too extravagant, Mr. Cross. I can't accept this."

Damian didn't press her, but his predatory gaze shifted slowly, landing on me.

I offered him my best, pageant-trained smile.

Good afternoon, walking felony. Please have a seat, walking felony. When is your federal indictment coming down, walking felony?

Arthur erupted into a violent, hacking cough. Preston turned his head sharply toward the French doors, his broad shoulders shaking with silent, desperate tension.

Unaware of the silent theater, Damian merely thought he was being subtly insulted by the family’s lack of deference. The charming edge of his smile cooled into something razor-thin.

He pulled an addendum out of his leather portfolio. "Arthur, you abruptly canceled our signing this morning. I believe I’m owed an explanation."

Arthur didn't offer the groveling excuses written in the original book. He took a slow sip of his black coffee, his expression carved from granite. "Our compliance team flagged irregularities in your funding entity’s capital flow. We’ll resume talks after our forensic audit concludes."

Damian leaned forward, dropping the polite veneer. "The Harrington Group’s liquid reserves are tight, Arthur. Playing hardball over routine holding structures might cost you your credit rating."

I internally scoffed.

A felon through and through. The second things didn't go his way, the mafia tactics came out.

Stop blowing smoke, you fraud. The municipal zoning announcement for the East Port Bay district drops the day after tomorrow—South Harbor property values are going to quintuple overnight!

Once that news breaks, investment banks will be queuing down the driveway to hand the Harringtons cash. If Old Man Arthur had sold three days earlier like the original idiot he was, he’d already be in prison trading cigarettes for cornbread.

Arthur’s face morphed through three distinct shades of crimson, but he didn't touch the addendum.

Instead, he signaled the butler. "Show Mr. Cross to his car."

Damian stood up, his jaw clenched tight. As he buttoned his jacket, he stopped directly in front of my chair. "Do you have an issue with me, Paige?"

"Not at all, Mr. Cross," I replied, voice dripping with honeyed innocence. "We only just met."

Inwardly, I added: I treat all criminal suspects with equal democratic contempt.

Gwen dropped her chin to her chest, her shoulders shaking so violently her chair vibrated.

The moment Damian’s Maybach pulled out of the courtyard, Arthur barked an order to his chief of staff: "Verify the rumors regarding the East Port Bay municipal rezoning immediately! And pull every single parcel of our South Harbor land off the market. Not an inch gets sold."

I sat on the velvet sofa, watching the chaotic flurry of phone calls with narrowing eyes.

A deeply unsettling theory began to take root in my mind.

Wait a second... can they actually hear me?

In a fraction of a second, Arthur, Eleanor, Preston, and Gwen all violently snapped their heads in opposite directions.

It was executed with such terrifying, synchronized precision they could have headlined a Broadway dance revue.