I let the words hang, let him feel the weight of them.
“And this pissed-off friend knows sixteen ways to break your arm before you can blink. Want to fucking test me?”
Behind him, the other guards shifted. Big guys. Pretty guys. Gym-built, nightclub bouncer physiques. Not one of them had the weight distribution of a real fighter. Not one of them had predator’s shoulders.
And every single one of them knew it.
Gary swallowed. Hard. Then he stepped aside.
“Thought so,” I said, brushing past him without another look.
Because the man who hurt Stephy was somewhere in this city, breathing her air.
And I was done playing nice.
The front door was open—massive, made of some exotic wood that probably cost more than most people's cars. Voices spilled out—urgent, argumentative, the sound of people trying to assign blame before it could stick to them. The foyer beyond was all white marble and modern art, a Basquiat on one wall that was worth more than the entire town of Copper Creek.
I walked through like they weren't there, my boots heavy on the Italian marble, leaving dirt on the pristine floor.
The living room was full of suits. Her management team, lawyers by the look of them, and a publicist I recognized from photos. They looked like they'd been ordered from a catalog—everyone with the same perfect teeth, the same Botoxed foreheads, the same dead eyes that calculated everything in terms of profit margins. A woman in a cream suit was typing frantically on her phone with nails so long I wondered how she managed it—probably dictating damage control to some underpaid assistant. A younger guy in designer jeans and a blazer had three phones out, managing what looked like social media accounts.
They all turned when I entered, their conversation cutting off mid-sentence.
Robert Kellerman stepped forward. Her manager. The one who'd called LAPD three times about "containing the narrative" instead of finding Stephy help. Fifties, but fighting it with hair plugs and subtle fillers that made his face look like it was stretched too tight. Silver fox wannabe in a suit that probably cost more than most people's monthly salary, Italian leather shoes that had never walked anywhere real.
"Who the hell are you?"
"I'm the person taking Stephanie out of here." I didn't stop moving, heading for the hallway that led to the bedrooms. The hallway was lined with platinum records and magazine covers—Stephy on the cover ofRolling Stone,Variety,Billboard. All different versions of someone I barely recognized.
"Wait just a minute." Robert moved to intercept me, his hand reaching out like he was going to grab my arm. Soft hands with a Rolex that caught the light—Daytona, probably a hundred grand. "You can't just walk in here. There are protocols, NDAs to sign, image considerations?—"
"Image considerations." I stopped, turned slowly. The look on my face made him step back. "A man broke into her home. Sexually assaulted her. And you're worried about image considerations?"
"We have to control the narrative." His voice took on that lecturing tone people use when they think they're the smartest person in the room. "Stevie's brand depends on maintaining a certain image. Victimhood doesn't sell records?—"
"Her name is Stephanie." The words came out sharp enough to cut glass, deep enough to be a growl. "And her brand can go to hell."
"Now listen here—" A lawyer type stepped forward, all three-piece suit and indignation. Probably UCLA Law, probably never saw the inside of a real courtroom, just conference rooms and settlement meetings. His face had that look of someone who'd never been hit and didn't think it could happen to him. "Ms. Wilson has contractual obligations. There are liability issues, insurance concerns?—"
“Stop talking.”
My voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t have to be. It hit the room like a pressure drop before a tornado—sharp, sudden, unmistakable.
Every man in the place froze.
“All of you. Shut the fuck up.”
Chairs scraped. Someone swallowed. No one tried to speak again.
“You failed her.” I took a slow step forward, letting the weight of that truth crush the air between us. “Every single one of you. Your one goddamn job was to keep her safe—and you fucked it.”
My pulse was steady. Too steady. The kind of calm that only came right before violence.
“So here’s what’s going to happen,” I said. “I’m going to get Stephanie. I’m going to take her somewhere safe. Somewhere you people can’t screw it up again.”
I swept my gaze across the room—each person flinching like the look itself burned.
“And if any of you try to stop me…” I took another step, slow, deliberate. “…or even think about getting in my way…” I leaned in, voice dropping into a quiet meant only for fear and death. “I’ll show you exactly what happens to men who hurt someone I love.”
