“Who are you to tell me anything?” I said. My voice cracked on the last word, splintering, but I didn’t care. “You aren’t my boss anymore. You just f-fired me. Remember?”
Sweat beaded along his hairline. His breathing turned fast and shallow, chest heaving as panic crept in beneath the rage.
“Don’t make me hurt you, Elena,” he said, voice low, threatening. “Give me the damn phone.”
“No.”
I held his gaze, steady and unblinking.
“Scared now, aren’t you?” I said softly. “You’re a sexual predator. You’ll lose your job. You’ll go to jail. And you’ll finally learn that no means no.”
For a heartbeat—just one—I hoped.
I hoped he would let go. Back down. Retract the firing. Offer me my job back with a muttered apology he didn’t mean. I hated myself for that hope, but it was real.
I needed this job.
I needed the twelve-to-sixteen-hour shifts washing endless stacks of plates, scrubbing grease from pans until my hands splitand bled. I needed the paycheck that barely covered rent on the cramped apartment I shared, the utilities that piled up month after month.
I needed the overpriced hearing-aid batteries that sometimes cost more than groceries.
Bills littered my kitchen table like accusations.
And places willing to hire someone like me—no college degree, no references that didn’t end in classified, injuries I couldn’t explain—were rare. This restaurant was one of the few that had taken me despite my condition, and it paid better than most. It wasn’t just a job.
It was survival.
But Hargrove didn’t back down.
His grip tightened.
And in that instant, I understood something with perfect clarity:
Men like him never stopped on their own.
He charged.
There was no warning this time. No posturing. No more shouting meant to intimidate. Just mass and momentum—two hundred and thirty pounds of rage and entitlement barreling straight at me, hands outstretched, fingers already curling as if he could tear the phone from my apron pocket even if it meant snapping my wrist in the process.
In his eyes, I saw it clearly.
Ownership.
He had no idea who he was dealing with.
Ten years ago—before the disaster that stole my hearing and shattered my speech—I had been trained by the best. They drilled close-quarters combat into my bones until it bypassed fear, bypassed thought. Until my body learned to move on instinct, striking and defending before my mind had time to freeze.
Trauma erases memory, but muscle memory doesn’t care.
The instant he lunged, my weight shifted automatically. I stepped into his reach instead of away from it—closing the distance where brute force mattered less. My left foot pivoted. My hips turned. And my knee came up hard and fast, driven by muscle, bone, and years of conditioning.
Surgical. Precise. Devastating.
The impact landed exactly where it was meant to.
Hargrove froze mid-stride.
His eyes bulged, white and shocked. His mouth formed a perfect, soundless O. Color drained from his face in seconds, turning it a sickly gray.
