Chapter 387
“And what do you want in return?” Eliza asked.
Jeannine smiled. It was sharp. “When Dallas falls — and he will fall, Eliza, one way or another — I want your vote. If you hold any sway, any shares, I want you on my side against Dosha.”
Eliza looked out the window. The city blurred past. Dallas falling. The idea seemed impossible. He was the skyline. He was the concrete.
“I’ll think about it,” Eliza said.
𝗕𝘦 𝘵𝗵𝗲 f𝗶𝗿𝘴𝘁 to 𝗿ea𝗱 𝗈𝗻 𝗀а𝗅𝗇𝗼vе𝗅𝘀.с𝗈𝗆
The car pulled up to the curb outside the university.
“One more thing,” Jeannine said as Eliza reached for the door handle. “Damon Luna — be careful. He thinks he’s a player, but he’s just a pawn with a credit card. If he calls you, don’t answer.”
Eliza stepped out onto the sidewalk. “Thanks for the ride, Jeannine.”
The window rolled up, and the Bentley glided away.
Eliza stood there, the warning buzzing in her ears. When Dallas falls.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket.
A voice message from Damon. She hesitated, remembering Jeannine’s warning. But curiosity won. She hit play.
“Eliza! Help me!”
Damon’s voice was high-pitched, panicked. In the background — shattering glass and a woman screaming. Cathey’s voice.
“She’s crazy! She’s trying to kill me! Eliza, please!”
The line went dead.
Eliza stared at the phone. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Damon was a snake — yes. But he was also the only person who had offered to help her save Solomon Industries when Dallas turned his back. She couldn’t just let him die.
She raised her hand to hail a taxi.
“Luna Manor,” she told the driver. “Fast.”
The front door of Luna Manor stood wide open.
Eliza ran inside, her breath catching in her throat. The living room looked like a war zone. An expensive Ming vase lay in shards across the Persian rug. A heavy coffee table had been overturned.
“You promised!” a voice shrieked.
Cathey Norton stood by the fireplace, her face twisted with ugly rage. She was brandishing a heavy bronze statue like a club.
“Get out!” Damon yelled.
He was sitting on the floor, leaning against the sofa. His left arm clutched his right, blood seeping through his fingers and dripping onto the white carpet. A jagged piece of porcelain — clearly from the broken vase — was embedded in his forearm.
“Damon!” Eliza rushed forward, dropping her bag.
Damon looked up. His face was pale, sweat beading on his forehead. When he saw her, his expression shifted from anger to something small and boyish — a pathetic, desperate relief. “Eliza,” he gasped. “You came.”
“Oh, look,” Cathey sneered, lowering the statue. “The savior arrives. Did you come to pick up his scraps?”
“Put that down, Cathey,” Eliza said, her voice shaking but firm. She knelt beside Damon. The cut was deep. “We need an ambulance.”
“No!” Damon grabbed Eliza’s wrist with his uninjured hand. His grip was surprisingly strong. “No ambulance.”
“Damon, you’re bleeding,” Eliza argued. “You need stitches.”
.
.