“I’m confident because I’m right.” Parker meets his eyes without flinching. “But don’t take my word for it. Let me conduct a full operational assessment. Three months. I’ll identify inefficiencies, restructure your staffing model, and increase your profit margins. If I can’t deliver results, you can go back to your current system.”
“And if you can deliver?”
“Then you start treating women like valuable assets instead of disposable decorations.”
McCoy’s smile turns calculating. “You’ve got spirit. I’ll give you that. Your father would have liked that. Probably tried to break it out of you, but he’d have appreciated the fire.”
“My father is dead,” Parker says flatly. “And I’m not interested in his opinions or yours about what women should be. I’m interested in making this organization more efficient and profitable. Are you interested in results, Mr. McCoy, or just maintaining outdated systems because they make you feel powerful?”
McCoy’s eyes narrow. Then he laughs—genuine this time, surprised. “Alright, Ms. Carter. You’ve got yourself a deal. Three months. Show me these miraculous improvements.”
He extends his hand across the table.
Parker reaches to shake it.
And McCoy’s grip changes—slides from professional to familiar, his thumb stroking across her knuckles in a way that makes my vision go red.
“Though I have to say,” he continues, his voice dropping to something that thinks it’s charming, “it’s a shame you’re all business. A woman who looks like you, with fire like that—you could make a fortune in my clubs. Customers would pay premium just to?—”
I’m moving before conscious thought kicks in.
Three steps. That’s all it takes. Three steps and I’m at the table, my hand slamming McCoy’s down against the wood before he can react.
The knife appears in my other hand like magic—eight inches of steel that’s tasted blood more times than I can count. I drive itthrough the back of his hand, pinning it to the table between the fourth and fifth metacarpal with surgical precision.
McCoy’s scream cuts off when my other hand finds his throat.
“Silas—” Jace’s voice, warning.
But I’m not listening. I’m watching McCoy’s eyes go wide as I lean in close, applying just enough pressure to his windpipe to make breathing difficult.
“You don’t touch her,” I say quietly. Conversationally. “You don’t look at her like that. You don’t suggest she work in your clubs or anywhere else. You speak to her with respect, you shake her hand professionally, and you remember your fucking place.”
McCoy’s free hand scrabbles at mine, trying to pry my fingers from his throat. His pinned hand twitches uselessly, blood welling around the blade.
“Silas,” Parker’s voice cuts through the haze. “Let him go.”
I don’t want to. I want to keep squeezing until something breaks. Want to twist the knife. Want to make sure Devon McCoy never looks at another woman like she’s merchandise.
“Silas.” Her hand touches my arm. Light. Gentle. “Let. Him. Go.”
The contact grounds me. Reminds me where I am. What’s at stake.
I release McCoy’s throat. Pull the knife free in one smooth motion, wiping the blood off on his expensive suit jacket.
McCoy gasps, cradling his bleeding hand against his chest. “You—you psychotic?—”
“Mr. McCoy,” Parker says calmly, as if a man wasn’t just stabbed at her business meeting. “I think we’re done here. You’ll receive my operational assessment proposal by the end of the week. I suggest you review it carefully.”
She stands, gathering her tablet and notes with steady hands.
“You can’t just—” McCoy sputters, blood dripping from his hand onto the table.
“I just did.” Parker’s voice is cold. Arctic. “And Mr. McCoy? If you ever touch me inappropriately again, Silas won’t stop at your hand. We clear?”
McCoy’s face has gone pale. He nods once, jerky and pained.
“Excellent.” Parker turns toward the door. “Jace, I believe we’re finished here.”
