Chapter 30 Caught Getting Close and Personal
The pain on his face brought me no guilt. Only a grim sense of justice.
A crowd had formed by then. Faces blurred together—some horrified, some fascinated. Phones were raised. No one intervened. They knew better. Everyone did.
I rarely lost my composure.
But when I did, there was only one outcome.
Blood.
When his body finally went slack, I hurled him across the floor like discarded trash. He collided with a marble pillar, the crack of bone unmistakable. The music died. The chatter vanished. Silence swallowed the room whole.
"Boss!”
Ray’s voice cut through the aftermath.
I turned away from the broken mess on the floor and rushed toward Jasmine. She was in Ray’s arms, shaking violently, her sobs ripping something apart inside me.
Seeing her like that—small, terrified, hurt—made my chest feel like it was collapsing inward.
“T-tesoro,” I breathed, my voice unsteady despite myself. “Are you okay?”
I barely registered the blood on my knuckles. Barely felt the pain. All I could see was her tear-streaked face.
I cupped her cheeks gently, forcing myself to soften, to slow down. I looked her over quickly—no obvious injuries. Thank God.
Then I saw it.
A mark.
On her neck.
Red. Angry.
My vision went black for a second.
I wanted to go back.
Finish it.
Make sure he never touched anyone again. But Jasmine was trembling, her breaths shallow and uneven. She needed me present—not consumed by rage.
“Tesoro,” I said firmly but gently, pressing my forehead to hers. “Look at me. You’re safe. You’re okay.”
She didn’t seem to hear me. Her eyes were unfocused, her body rigid with shock. I pulled her against my chest, wrapping myself around her protectively, shielding her from everything and everyone.
“I’ve got you,” I murmured into her hair. “I’m here.”
Her scent—soft, familiar—cut through the fury, grounding me just enough to think clearly. I felt her weight go slack in my arms, her body going limp.
“Shit,” I muttered softly.
I scooped her up carefully, holding her bridal-style, supporting her head against my shoulder. She was lighter than she should have been. Fragile in a way that made my jaw tighten.
I didn’t look back.
Didn’t acknowledge the stunned silence, the whispers, the chaos beginning to ripple through the crowd.
I walked out of the ballroom with her in my arms, every step deliberate, my focus singular.
Whoever had thought it was acceptable to harm her had just made the worst mistake of their life.
And I would make sure they never forgot it.
~
“The prick drugged her.”
The words left my mouth through clenched teeth, sharp and brittle with rage. My jaw locked as I stepped out of the guest room and shut the door quietly behind me, careful not to let the sound echo down the corridor. The last thing I wanted was to wake Jasmine—though I doubted anything could stir her right now.
She had been unconscious for nearly twelve hours.
Twelve.
The number replayed in my head like a ticking bomb.
The doctor had assured me she would wake soon. He’d explained, in that calm, professional tone doctors used when they were trying to keep you from tearing the world apart, that the substance used on her was potent. Far stronger than a casual sedative. The dosage, he’d said, had been excessive—careless. That was why her body had shut down the way it had. Why she was still sleeping so deeply.
I had nodded. I had thanked him.
And the moment he left, I had broken a glass in my hand.
I started down the hallway toward my study, my footsteps heavy against the marble floors. Ray followed a few steps behind me, silent, respectful, his presence steady like it always was. He didn’t need to ask how I felt. He already knew.
“How much damage are we talking about?” I asked finally, my voice tired, worn thin at the edges. I dragged a hand through my hair, fingers catching in the mess I hadn’t bothered to fix since last night.
Ray hesitated. That alone told me enough.
“A lot of damage, boss,” he said carefully.
I stopped walking and turned to look at him. His eyes held something I rarely saw—sympathy. Not just for me, but for Jasmine. For the mess she’d been dragged into without warning, without consent.
I exhaled slowly and continued into the study, closing the door behind us. The room was dim, the heavy curtains drawn halfway, city lights bleeding in through the glass like distant stars. I dropped into the leather chair behind my desk, the familiar weight of it doing nothing to ground me this time.
I scrubbed at my stubble, my thoughts spiraling.
Jasmine was not built for this world.
She wasn’t hardened by it. She hadn’t grown up dodging headlines or learning how to smile while knives were thrown at her back. She was warm. Human. Soft in all the ways this life punished.
And now she was tangled in it because of me.
“Call a meeting,” I said suddenly, straightening in my seat. “My closest associates only. We need to address this immediately.”
Ray nodded, already pulling out his phone, fingers moving swiftly as he sent out encrypted emails. Efficient. Controlled.
I leaned back and stared at the ceiling, a low growl building in my chest.
I hated this.
I hated the politics. The vultures. The media.
And God, did I hate how fast they had moved.
I had been too angry last night to notice them—too consumed with getting Jasmine out of that ballroom, too focused on keeping her breathing, on holding her limp body against my chest. The cameras had been there, of course. They always were. Flashing. Clicking. Capturing moments they had no right to own.
Even if I had seen them, there would have been nothing I could do.
The press was protected.
That was the irony of it all.
They invaded lives, ripped privacy to shreds, turned trauma into entertainment—and if anyone dared touch them, dared push back, the world would erupt in outrage. Freedom of the press, they called it. As if freedom meant entitlement. As if it gave them the right to ruin lives without consequence.
They had done exactly that.
And this time, they had dragged Jasmine into it.
For someone like me—someone who had spent years carefully keeping his personal life locked away—this was unprecedented. And because of that, it spread like wildfire. Every news channel. Every blog. Every gossip page hungry for a story that would keep people scrolling.
I had watched it unfold for exactly five minutes before I turned my phone off and threw it onto the couch like it was poison.
But the headline was already burned into my memory:
“FAMOUS MULTI-BILLIONAIRE DAMIEN IDRIS BLACKWOOD, SON OF THE LATE MR. DICK HARRISON BLACKWOOD, CAUGHT GETTING CLOSE AND PERSONAL WITH HIS P.A., MS. JASMINE SCOTT, AT PARTY HOSTED BY JACE ANDERSON.”