Chapter 8

People began to trickle out of the tunnel.

Damian held his breath.

Then, that silhouette appeared.

Claire Lancaster. She was wearing a white, bohemian-style maxi dress, her long hair loosely pinned up with a few strands cascading down her neck. She wore little makeup, yet her skin was translucent and fair, her features exquisite as a work of art. Pushing a small carry-on, she was turning her head to speak to someone beside her, her smile radiant.

Damian's heart hammered against his ribs. He strode forward quickly, his voice raspy with emotion:

"Claire!"

Hearing the voice, Claire turned. When she saw Damian, a flicker of surprise crossed her face, followed by a polite smile. But she didn't throw herself into his arms as he had imagined. Instead, she stopped, looked at the massive entourage behind him with some confusion, and politely took half a step back.

That subtle movement was like a bucket of ice water poured over Damian's head.

A hand wrapped around Claire's waist.

It belonged to a tall, blond man, around thirty, dressed in a casual beige jacket and jeans. Handsome and sunny, his smile revealed a row of white teeth. He stood beside Claire naturally, his posture intimate and possessive.

"Damian?" Claire held the man's arm, her smile courteous but distant. "Long time no see. Thank you for coming to meet the plane, but Marc has already arranged a car."

Marc. Marc Renault. Claire's agent.

Damian froze in place, the bouquet in his hand looking utterly ridiculous. Three days of preparation, six cars, eight bodyguards, flowers worth a fortune—all to look like a delusional clown.

"Marc?" He forced the word out, his voice dry.

"Yes, we're getting married." Claire leaned happily against the man's shoulder and raised her left hand. On her ring finger sat a minimalist diamond ring. "I intended to send you an invitation, but since we've run into each other, consider this a verbal invite. Next month, in Paris."

Paris. Not Chicago. She didn't even plan to hold the wedding here.

A corner of Damian's world collapsed in that instant. He could feel the gazes of those around him—the bodyguards, the assistants, the onlookers—filled with pity, mockery, and schadenfreude.

"You... never mentioned it," he heard himself say, his voice sounding distant, as if coming from another world.

"Oh, we met in Europe. We've been together for two years," Claire said lightly, then checked her watch. "Sorry, Damian, we need to get to the hotel to rest; we have a press conference this afternoon. Catch up later?"

With that, she took Marc Renault's arm and walked past Damian. The blond man even nodded at him, dropping a "Nice to meet you" with a tone as casual as a greeting between strangers.

Damian stood rooted to the spot, still clutching the laughable freesias. Petals drifted down one by one, like fragments of his shattered fantasy.

An assistant approached cautiously. "Sir, shall we..."

"Get lost." Damian squeezed the words through clenched teeth.

He spun around violently and smashed the bouquet onto the floor. The delicate flowers shattered across the cold marble, their sap splattering onto his polished leather shoes.

But no one dared to say a word.

Damian Blackwood, the man undefeated in the business world, had just tasted utter, absolute defeat.

Meanwhile, on the tarmac of another private airfield in Chicago.