Damian's hands gripped her arms like steel clamps, holding her firmly while keeping her at a distance. He tried to push her away, but her drug-numbed body resisted him; every cell in her body screamed, yearning for the comfort that only his closeness could provide.

Assistant Owen Hayes spoke again, his voice low and efficient, like a whisper. “Mr. Blackwood, and she is Cassandra Laurent. From the Laurent family. Our marriage prospectus.”

Damian's gaze sharpened, turning from icy to piercing. He scrutinized her from head to toe, a hint of disdain flashing in his dark eyes.

He uttered a short, emotionless sound. "Hmph. Is this their grand plan? To fake a suicide to get my attention?" His voice was deep and booming, filled with pure contempt.

“She seems to be trying to escape, sir,” Irwin clarified, as professionally as ever. “The Laurent family is searching for her anxiously.”

These messages did nothing to soften Damian's expression. On the contrary, they hardened it further. He hated trouble. He hated being disobeyed. He had agreed to the marriage for pragmatic reasons—to appease the family board and solidify business alliances. The bride herself was merely a factor considered afterward, a name on the contract. A name that was now causing him immense trouble.

He recalled the file on Cassandra Laurent. Plain-looking. Timid. Socially disastrous. Unremarkable. This desperate, persistent creature was more pathetic than he had imagined.

He made a swift and decisive decision. He looked at Owen, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Cancel the engagement. Send her back to the Laurent family. I don't deal with defective goods."

Irving nodded. "Yes, sir." He reached for his phone, preparing to call security.

The words "send her back" pierced the drug-induced fog in Cassandra's mind. Back to Melissa. Back to that gilded cage. The thought was more terrifying than drowning.

At the same time, the drug's effects reached their peak. Her last shred of self-control evaporated. A primal panic gripped her as she sensed Damian was about to push her away completely.

She tightened her arms around him, burying her face in his hard chest. The clean, cool scent of his shirt was like an anchor in a burning sea. A broken sound, half sob, half pleading, escaped her lips: "No...please...don't send me back."

These words hung suspended in the cold night air. Damian and Owen both froze. This was not the reaction of a cunning manipulator. This was a raw, unadorned plea from a person in genuine agony.

Damian's body stiffened. He could feel the heat emanating from her, a violent tremor engulfing her petite frame. He looked down at the top of her head, her dark, damp hair clinging to her scalp. When she looked up at him, her eyes were unfocused, her pupils dilated. This wasn't acting.

Damian tried to break free again, but she clung to him like a vine, her hands groping over his jacket, trying to pull him closer and absorb his coolness. One of her hands hooked onto a button on his shirt, the frantic, clumsy movement saying more than any scream.

Irving held his breath. He had worked for Damian for ten years and had never seen anyone touch him so casually, let alone with such desperate intimacy.

Damian's patience finally snapped. A dangerous fire ignited deep within his eyes. He grabbed her chin, his fingers digging into her skin, forcing her to lift her head. His voice was like an icy blade.

"Woman, do you know what you're doing?"

The stinging pain from his clenched fingertips brought a brief moment of clarity. But for Cassandra, whose senses were numbed by drugs, his touch was merely another source of relief from the burning sensation. She moved closer to him, her body instinctively seeking more. Her lips parted slightly, her hot, shallow breath brushing against his skin. She was so close that he could even feel her heat brush against his lips.

Damian's breath caught in his throat. A strange, unfamiliar current surged through his body, and it wasn't just anger. It was something else entirely. Something he hadn't felt in a long time.

He looked into her eyes and saw his own reflection, cold and stern. He saw a face he didn't recognize, beautiful yet bewildered, pleading for something she couldn't express. She weakly shook her head, answering his question silently. She had no idea what she was doing.

He should have pushed her away. He should have handed her over to his security personnel and gotten rid of this mess completely.

He didn't.

He muttered a curse under his breath, released her chin, then slid one arm under her knees and wrapped the other around her back. He effortlessly lifted her off the deck.

She was light and fragile in his arms, her body still burning hot against him. He didn't say another word to Owen, turned and strode into the cabin, his long legs quickly shortening the distance to his private suite.