Trapped in the boss's embrace (by Katrina A) novel Chapter 120

Chapter 120 An Indiscriminate Verbal Assault

Beatrice's racing heart suddenly stilled, calm as a frozen lake. An icy tranquility flowed through her veins, numbing both body and mind into perfect stillness.

All turmoil vanished.

These aren't work hours.

Just relax.

Damian slowly turned his glacial gaze on Anastasia. None of their blind date's courtesy remained, only frost. "Ms. Whitmore."

"How lovely to see you again." Anastasia's hopeful tone deliberately ignored his chill, willing warmth into the interaction.

Damian's expression didn't thaw. A curt nod was his only response before looking away—no offered seat, no reciprocal greeting, just crushing silence.

Anastasia flushed with embarrassment. Retreating felt improper, but staying meant enduring his blatant dismissal.

"Mr. Crowley..." Her soft plea hung unanswered.

Damian pointedly ignored her. A crimson flush crept up Anastasia's neck as the embarrassment burned.

Her friend gaped, dumbfounded.

This is supposed to be a date!

Why is he treating her like this?

The entire restaurant had noticed now. Though Ethan and Killian pitied Anastasia, neither dared intervene.

Beatrice strained to listen, growing more confused by the second. 

Why is he snubbing his own date? 

The Damian she knew wasn't capricious—if anything, his emotional control bordered on robotic.

"Mr. Crowley," Anastasia's friend finally blurted, "may we sit with you?"

"Table's full," Damian replied without looking up.

Just as Anastasia's hope crumbled, he added, "Though if you insist on sitting nearby..." His gaze flicked to Beatrice. "My secretary's table has space."

Beatrice's jaw dropped. Anastasia whirled around, equally stunned. The entire restaurant held its breath.

Is he insane?! 

Beatrice screamed internally.

Ethan and Killian exchanged glances. 

Classic Crowley move.

Before anyone could react, Anastasia's embarrassment vanished. "That'll do."

She glided to Beatrice's table, her friend in tow.

Theodore gawked as the women settled in without invitation.

Beatrice inhaled sharply. Unlike Damian, she had manners; unlike Anastasia, she wouldn't tolerate this.

"Ms. Whitmore," she said with forced politeness, "we're expecting company. Since you prefer this table, we'll—"

A delicate hand caught her wrist. Anastasia's tear-bright eyes met hers. "Please...let's share?"

Beatrice froze. Threats and flattery rolled off her, but a beautiful woman's tears? Her kryptonite.

Perhaps Ms. Whitmore wasn't spineless—she simply couldn't find a dignified way to extricate herself.

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