Celia sat in the backseat of the car, her legs crossed, fingers tapping against the soft leather of the armrest. The engine had long since gone silent, the driver waiting for her next command, but she had given none. She wasn't leaving. Not yet.
Damien wasn't the type to be locked away in a mansion like this.
No, that fool had always been restless, always looking for some pointless way to fill his days—whether it was wasting money on luxury goods, drifting through social gatherings like a lost child, or sulking in some dimly lit bar, drowning himself in self-pity. He was not someone who could simply sit still and accept confinement.
If he was here, if he was truly inside that house, then something was wrong.
It would mean that this wasn't just his decision. It would mean that someone—his family—was forcing him to disappear.
That thought sent another sharp pang of irritation through her.
