The footage shows Mara in her black dress, paddle in hand, focused on the auctioneer. Even through the grainy security camera feed, she's stunning.
"Hartley was drunk," I continue, my voice hardening. "I could see it in the way he moved, the way he kept ordering morechampagne. But I wasn't worried. Mara knows how to handle difficult clients. She's done it before."
I fast-forward to the bar area. The angle isn't perfect—the camera is positioned to cover the main auction room, and the bar is partially out of frame. But I can see enough.
"They went to the bar after the sale. I watched him order drinks, watched him move closer to her. Too close." My hands clench on the desk. "And then he touched her."
On the screen, Hartley's hand moves to Mara's lower back. Then lower. I see her body stiffen, see her try to step away. But his other hand grabs her arm, pulls her against him.
"He grabbed her ass," I say, my voice cold. "Hard enough to bruise."
Kazimir is silent, watching the footage.
"She slapped him," I continue. "Right across the face. Then she walked out."
On screen, Mara's hand connects with Hartley's cheek. The champagne glass falls, shattering. Then she's walking away, her whole body rigid with anger and humiliation.
"I've killed men for less—for looking at me wrong, for showing disrespect, for thinking they could take what was mine. But this—" I pause, trying to find words for the rage that consumed me. "This was different. He stayed at the auction for another hour. Drinking more, laughing with his friends like nothing happened. Like he hadn't just assaulted a woman. Like it was nothing."
The footage shows Hartley leaving the auction house at ten-thirty, slightly unsteady on his feet. He climbs into a town car—probably his driver.
“And then you had us follow him home.” It’s a statement of fact; Kazimir was there with me. He knows how the rest of the night played out.
Hartley's apartment was exactly what I expected: expensive and tasteless, full of art he bought because someone else told him to. He was in his bedroom by the time we got there, already in pajamas, probably thinking about what he'd tried to do to Mara. Probably not feeling even a moment of remorse. Probably getting ready to jerk off to the thought of her.
I would’ve taken his right hand, too, if I hadn’t seen that he was left-handed. Now he’ll never comfortably jerk off again.
He’d let us up, probably thinking she’d changed her mind, or that his wife had come back. A stupid, worthless piece of shit so rich he thought he was infallible, untouchable, that no one would hurt him.
I showed him how wrong he was.
"You're fortunate I showed restraint," I tell Kazimir sharply. "I could have made him suffer for hours. I could have fucking killed him.”
"How merciful of you."
I ignore the sarcasm. "I was sending a message."
Kazimir sighs, running a hand over his scalp. "A message to who? To Mara? To every man in Manhattan?"
"To anyone who thinks they can touch what's mine."
I pull up new footage—this time from the camera I have positioned across from Mara's apartment. I watch her open the door, nearly trip over the gift. I watch her bring it inside, and disappointment squeezes my gut. I wanted to see her open it. I wanted to see the look on her face.
“There’s the cops.” Kazimir grunts, and I look back at the footage several minutes later to see police officers arriving at her door.
“I’ll deal with it.”
“She looks terrified.” Kazimir gestures to the footage of Mara opening her door. He’s right—she does look too pale, her eyestoo wide. It would be a shock, I knew that. But it would also show her who it is that wants her.
Someone who can protect her. Who can make sure that men like Maxwell never touch her again.
“She doesn’t understand yet. She will.”
“Ilya… maybe you should walk away. Let her go. This isn’t her world. You’re dragging her into something she has no business being a part of.”
I don't even dignify that with a response.
Kazimir shakes his head. "You're playing a dangerous game."
