Vanessa entered like a hurricane in designer heels.
She swept into the penthouse as if she owned it—which, technically, she partially did—her blonde hair perfectly styled despite the early hour, her makeup flawless, her smile bright and terrible.
"Damien, darling! There you are. I've been worried sick—" She stopped mid-sentence when she saw us.
Me, standing protectively near Noah. Damien, positioned between us and her like a shield. And Noah himself, still clutching his dinosaur drawing, looking up at this beautiful stranger with curious eyes.
"Well," she said, her voice dropping to that dangerous calm I'd learned to fear. "Isn't this cozy."
"Vanessa." Damien's voice was steady, controlled. "We need to talk."
"Oh, we certainly do." Her gaze swept over Noah with calculating precision,
