She Begged a Stranger to Kiss Her After Catching Her Sister With Her Fiancé, but She Had No Idea the Man Holding Her Face Was Chicago’s Most Feared Crime Boss

The estate was breathtaking, terrifying, and overwhelmingly grand.

As Claire stepped out of the Maybach, the cold lake wind whipped her hair across her face, carrying the scent of deep water and pine trees. Armed guards in immaculate black suits stood at attention near the massive arched oak doors, their posture rigid, their eyes scanning the perimeter with hawk-like precision.

“You live here... alone?” Claire asked, walking beside Damon up the stone steps.

“I have a staff,” Damon replied casually, gesturing for the lead guard to open the doors. “And a security detail that ensures no unwanted guests drop by for dinner.”

“I imagine the guest list is quite short,” Claire muttered dryly.

“Extremely.” Damon led her into a soaring entryway lit by a magnificent wrought-iron chandelier. The interior was a study in contrasts—dark wood paneling, minimalist modern furniture, and priceless classical art hanging on the walls. It felt less like a home and more like a museum curated by a warlord.

A middle-aged woman with silver hair pulled into a severe bun appeared from the hallway, her eyes instantly assessing Claire from head to toe.

“Mrs. Gable,” Damon said, addressing the housekeeper. “Prepare the master wing guest suite for Ms. Bennett. Have a tailor brought in first thing tomorrow morning. She’ll need a completely new wardrobe.”

“Right away, Mr. Vane,” Mrs. Gable replied smoothly, though her sharp eyes lingered on Claire with undisguised curiosity. She didn't look shocked. Apparently, bringing traumatized society women home at midnight was just another Tuesday in the Vane household.

“Wait,” Claire stepped back, crossing her arms defensively. “I never agreed to stay here. I have an apartment downtown—well, technically Grant and I had a condo, but—”

“Your condo is currently being swarmed by paparazzi and reporters sniffing around the collapsed Mercer merger,” Damon interrupted flatly, turning to face her. His expression was immovable, carved from granite. “Furthermore, Arthur Mercer’s associates are desperate. They know you hold the keys to Willow Crest. Do you honestly think you’re safe out there alone tonight?”

Claire bit her lower lip. She knew he was right. By tomorrow morning, every tabloid in Chicago would have pictures of her kissing Damon Vane outside the Halstead Grand. Her life as she knew it was completely incinerated. There was no going back to her pristine apartment, her morning yoga classes, or her polite brunch dates with her socialite friends.

“Why are you doing this, Damon?” she asked, her voice dropping all its defensive armor, revealing the exhausted, aching woman underneath. “You don’t know me. You could have just walked away in that hallway. Why drag me into your war?”

Damon stepped closer. He was so close now she could feel the heat radiating off his tall frame. He reached out, his large hand gently cupping her chin, forcing her to look up at him.

“Because, Claire,” he whispered, his dark eyes burning with an intense, hypnotic focus, “I hate thieves. I hate liars. And most of all... I hate seeing people like Grant Mercer destroy something extraordinary just because they are too blind to appreciate its value.”

Claire’s breath hitched. For a terrifying, exhilarating second, she felt as though she were falling off a cliff, and Damon Vane was the only thing standing between her and the rocks below.

“Get some rest,” he murmured, his thumb brushing across her cheekbone one last time before he dropped his hand. “Mrs. Gable will take care of you. We have a very busy day tomorrow.”

“Doing what?” Claire asked.

A slow, terrifyingly confident smile spread across Damon’s face.