Chapter 1 - The First Drop of Blood
Victor stood perfectly still in the dimly lit office space.
He watched Harper’s expression shift from annoyance to genuine alarm.
Her blue-light glasses slipped slightly down the bridge of her nose as she took in his disheveled appearance.
His charcoal suit, usually immaculate, was ruined with dirt and a few stray drops of crimson.
The shallow cut on his cheekbone was still bleeding slowly.
A single drop of blood traced the sharp angle of his jaw and disappeared into the collar of his white shirt.
Harper pushed her chair back, the wheels squeaking loudly in the dead silence of the fourteenth floor.
She did not scream.
She did not reach for the phone to call security.
Instead, she did something that entirely baffled the most dangerous man in Chicago.
She opened the bottom drawer of her desk and pulled out a bright red first-aid kit.
“Sit down,” she commanded, pointing a slender finger at the empty chair beside her cubicle.
Victor looked at the chair, then back at her.
No one had ordered him to do anything in over a decade.
Men usually begged, negotiated, or died when they were in a room with him.
But Harper was looking at him with the frustrated authority of a kindergarten teacher.
“I said sit,” she repeated, her tone leaving absolutely no room for debate.
Victor moved slowly, the adrenaline from the dockyard fight still humming violently in his veins.
He lowered his tall frame into the cheap mesh office chair.
It groaned in protest under his weight.
Harper rolled her own chair closer until her knees were mere inches from his legs.
She smelled like that same cheap vanilla soap and the exhaustion of a twelve-hour workday.
She unlatched the plastic kit and pulled out an antiseptic wipe.
“You logistics guys must have a really intense union,” she muttered, tearing the packet open with her teeth.
Victor did not reply.
He just watched her face.
She leaned in, her eyes focusing entirely on the cut across his cheek.
“This is going to sting,” she warned.
She was right.
The chemical burn of the wipe made his jaw muscles clench, but he did not make a single sound.
Harper’s fingers were surprisingly gentle as they supported the side of his face.
Her skin was warm.
It was the first time in his adult life that someone was touching him without trying to kill him or seduce him for money.
The sheer innocence of her touch felt like a physical shock to his system.
She meticulously cleaned away the dried blood, her brow furrowed in deep concentration.
“Someone came at you with a blade,” she observed quietly.
“A broken bottle,” Victor corrected, his voice a low, gravelly rumble in the quiet office.
Harper paused, her brown eyes meeting his dark, unreadable gaze.
She was close enough that he could see the tiny gold flecks in her irises.
“What kind of supply chain meetings are you going to at midnight?” she whispered.
“The complicated kind.”
She snorted softly, breaking the heavy tension.
“Well, you need to tell HR that your working conditions are unacceptable.”
She applied a small, sterile bandage to his cheekbone, pressing down lightly to make it stick.
Her hand lingered on his face for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.
Victor’s heart, a muscle that usually only pumped ice water, gave a strange, heavy thud in his chest.
“There,” she said, pulling back and breaking the contact.
“You’ll live.”
Victor stood up slowly, towering over her once again.
“Why are you still here, Harper?” he asked.
She blinked, surprised that he knew her name.
“The marketing campaign for the new perfume launch,” she sighed, gesturing to her glowing monitor.
“My manager, David, decided at five o'clock that he hated the entire color palette.”
She rubbed her temples wearily.
“If I don't have this redesigned by tomorrow morning, I'm fired.”
Victor looked at the computer screen, then back down at her exhausted, beautiful face.
A cold, familiar darkness settled behind his eyes.
He knew exactly how to solve problems named David.
“Go home,” Victor said softly.
“I can’t,” she argued.
“Go home, Harper,” he repeated, his tone shifting into something dangerously absolute.
“The design is perfect as it is.”
He turned and walked toward the bank of elevators before she could protest again.
He needed to leave before he did something completely irrational, like pulling her into his arms.
When the elevator doors closed, Victor pulled out his encrypted phone.
He dialed Arthur’s number.
“Sir?” Arthur answered immediately.
“Find a man named David who manages the design team on the fourteenth floor,” Victor ordered.
“What would you like me to do with him, sir?”
“Ensure he no longer works at Crescent Creative.”
May you like
Victor watched the floor numbers descend.
“And Arthur? Make sure he leaves the industry entirely.”
