The press leans in, waiting for the script.
But I don’t need it.
I already know exactly what I want to say.
And so does Vivian. It doesn’t even matter what I say, we’re not here for the conference anyway. It’s just a front.
I dramatically push the papers aside. A gasp ripples through the room.
Vivian’s eyes flick toward me, steady, telling me:I’m here. Say it.My wife. My anchor. She doesn’t know that.
I look out at the crowd and let them see it all—my anger, my resolve, my intention to burn the whole world down if I have to.
“Good afternoon,” I begin, my voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. “I may sound a little upset today, but that’s just because I am.”
A few nervous laughs ripple through the hall, but I don’t smile.
“I’m not in the habit of organizing press conferences,” I continue, “but I’ve been forced to do two in the space of a few days, and frankly? That’s unacceptable.”
Vivian stands still beside me, chin high, expression unreadable but blazing with quiet strength. She isn’t here as a prop. She’s here as the line no one is allowed to cross.
“There have been physical attacks on me and my wife,” I say, my voice dropping into something darker. “Some of you were here at the last conference—the one that ended with gunshots. Since then, the attacks have increased exponentially.”
Gasps. Murmurs. Cameras flash like lightning.
“And let me make one thing perfectly clear—” I lean forward, gripping the podium. “I will never—never—be forced to hide with my tail between my legs.”
The room holds its breath.
“So if there’s anyone out there who hates me, who resents me, who wants to see me fall…stop being a coward. Come clean. Face me like a man.”
Silence. Heavy. Electric.
Then, slowly, deliberately, I turn my head toward Vivian.
“My wife,” I say, voice roughening, “is the most important asset in my life. My anchor. My priority. And if anyone—anyone—so much as harms a strand of her hair, they will incur my full wrath.”
A collective gasp breaks through the room. Some reporters stare at me like I’ve lost my mind. Others like they’re witnessing a declaration of war.
Both are correct.
“I hope,” I add, sweeping the room with a cold stare, “that I’ve made my point. Some of you may assume I’m acting out of fear.” I shake my head slowly. “I’m not scared. Not even close. I’m secure in my ability to protect my family.”
The flash of cameras is blinding now.
I give a curt nod and step back from the podium.
Vivian steps forward. “My husband has said everything,” she begins, a tremble threading through her voice—it’scalculated, precise, the kind that compels people to lean closer. “But I—”
She doesn’t finish.
Chaos detonates.
CRACK—CRACK—CRACK.
Gunshots explode from the main doorway.
Screams erupt instantly. Reporters dive for the floor, chairs flip, cameras crash, lights topple. Roman, Lev, and Niko spring into action like they were born for this—guns out, instincts sharp, fury immediate.
