Chapter 2 - The Strike
The rain lashed against the arched glass doors of the grand ballroom, but inside, the silence was total. Sixty men and women in tailored tuxedos and thousand-dollar evening gowns stood frozen, champagne glasses hovering halfway to their lips.
Vanessa Whitmore’s hand hung in the air, her crimson-painted nails glistening under the crystal chandeliers. Her face was twisted into a cruel, triumphant sneer as she prepared to deliver a second strike across my face.
"You broke little charity case," Vanessa purred, her voice dripping with venom so all her wealthy friends could hear. "Your pathetic, dying mother raised a dog. Kneel back down and lick the rest of that cake off my floor before I have Dominic throw you in the lake."
She brought her palm down with full force.
In my mind, the world slowed to a crawl. The smell of expensive perfume, the cold sensation of buttercream on my bare knuckles, the sting on my left cheek—it all dissolved into the sharp, familiar instinct I had locked away eight years ago. Eleven years of elite Krav Maga, kickboxing, and defensive combat training surged back through my nervous system like an electric current.
I didn't flinch. I didn't duck.
I shifted my hips two inches to the left. Her hand whistled harmlessly past my ear.
Before Vanessa could even register that she had missed, my left hand shot up, catching her wrist in an iron grip. Her eyes widened in sudden, absolute shock.
"What are you—" she began to shriek.
I stood up. I didn't rush. I rose smoothly from the marble floor, my five-foot-eight frame rising above her six-inch designer heels. I twisted her wrist counter-clockwise, applying just enough pressure on her radial nerve to force her to her knees.
Vanessa let out a sharp, pathetic gasp, her knees crashing hard onto the very same cake-covered marble floor she had just forced me onto. Her cream dress plunged into the sticky mess.
"Let go of me! Dominic! Kill her!" Vanessa screamed, thrashing wildly, but my grip was an impenetrable lock.
I leaned down until my lips were an inch from her ear, my voice dropping into a low, terrifyingly calm whisper that made her blood turn to ice.
"My mother is a queen who fought to keep me alive," I whispered. "You are just a parasite wearing expensive silk. Touch me again, or speak about my mother, and I will snap your arm in three places before your bodyguards can cross the room."
A loud collective gasp echoed through the ballroom.
Footsteps heavy enough to vibrate the floorboards approached from the VIP lounge. Two broad-shouldered security operatives in dark suits drew their concealed sidearms, rushing forward.
"Freeze!" the lead guard snarled, aiming his weapon at my chest.
I released Vanessa’s wrist. She collapsed onto her side, sobbing hysterical, ruined tears, clutching her red wrist while cream and chocolate frosting smeared across her face and dress.
I didn't look at the guards. I didn't look at the guns.
My eyes moved slowly to the end of the room, where Dominic Moretti stood.
The billionaire head of the Moretti syndicate hadn't drawn a weapon. He stood with one hand in the pocket of his bespoke charcoal suit, a glass of amber scotch resting casually in his other hand. His dark, sharp eyes weren't filled with rage.
They were filled with intense, dangerous curiosity.
Dominic raised one finger. His bodyguards instantly froze, lowering their weapons, though their knuckles remained white against the grips.
Dominic walked forward, his hand-crafted leather shoes clicking rhythmically against the stone. He stopped three feet from me, looking down at Vanessa groveling on the floor, and then brought his dark gaze back to my face.
May you like
He took out a silk pocket square, stepped closer, and gently handed it to me.
"Wipe your cheek, Avery," Dominic said softly, his deep voice carrying a tone that sent a shiver down my spine. "You have frosting on your face."
