“I want to leave,” I say, louder now.
“In a moment.” His voice remains calm, soothing, like he’s talking to a spooked animal. “First, I think you should consider what I’m telling you. Your career is over. Your reputation is ruined, but it doesn’t have to stay that way. The right connections, the right… arrangements… could change everything.”
The man by the door moves closer. I’m hemmed in completely now, trapped between the wall and the table and two men who speak in euphemisms but leave no doubt about their intentions.
Panic claws at my throat, sharp and suffocating. My vision tunnels. The restaurant noise fades to a distant hum. All I can hear is my own heartbeat, thundering against my ribs.
“Just think about it,” the first man continues. “You’re beautiful. You’re famous. Even with the scandal, there are people who would—”
The violence erupts without warning.
The front window explodes inward in a shower of glass and screaming. Bodies hit the floor—servers, diners, anyone unlucky enough to be standing in the wrong place. The man blocking my exit spins around, hand going inside his jacket, but something heavy and fast slams into his chest before he can draw whatever he was reaching for.
Gunshots crack the air. Sharp, deafening, too close. Someone shouts orders in a language I don’t recognize. Women scream. Men curse. Chaos floods the elegant dining room like a breaking dam.
I dive under the table without thinking, knees hitting the floor hard enough to bruise. The white tablecloth becomes a tent around me, muffling the sounds but not the terror. My dress tangles around my legs as I curl into the smallest space I can manage, arms wrapped around my head.
More shots. Closer now. I hear bodies hitting the floor, chairs overturning, the wet sound of something I don’t want to identify. Through the thin fabric, I catch glimpses of feet—black boots moving with purpose, expensive loafers stumbling and falling.
The man who was sitting across from me is shouting now, all pretense of charm gone. His voice cracks with fear as he begs someone to wait, to listen, to let him explain. The words cut off abruptly.
I squeeze my eyes shut and press my face against my knees, counting heartbeats, counting breaths, counting anything that proves I’m still alive while the world tears itself apart above me.
The tablecloth is ripped away like a magician’s trick, sudden and violent. I look up into eyes the color of winter storms—pale blue, cold, utterly focused. Nikola Sharov crouches beside the table, one hand extended toward me, the other holding a gun that’s still warm from use.
“Get up.” His voice cuts through the chaos like a blade. It’s a command delivered with the kind of authority that expects immediate compliance.
I shake my head, pressing deeper into the corner. “Don’t touch me.”
He doesn’t argue. His hand closes around my wrist and pulls, not rough but absolutely unyielding. I’m on my feet before I can process the movement, stumbling against him asmy legs remember how to work. He smells like gunpowder and something clean and sharp—cologne that probably costs more than my rent.
The restaurant is a war zone. Bodies sprawl across overturned tables, blood pooling on white marble. Some are clearly dead—the man who blocked my exit lies twisted near the door, eyes staring at nothing. Others moan softly, clutching wounds that paint their expensive clothes crimson. Staff huddle behind the bar, faces white with shock.
“This was you,” I whisper, the words scraping raw from my throat. “You did this.”
Nikola’s grip on my wrist tightens. He’s scanning the room, cataloging threats, counting bodies with the detached efficiency of someone who’s done this before. Often. “They were here for you.”
“They were talking. Just talking.”
His eyes snap to mine, and something dangerous flickers there. “They weren’t talking about the weather, Elara. They were positioning you for sale.”
The words hit like a slap.Sale. Not seduction, not even coercion. Commerce. I was merchandise to be appraised and moved.
Reality crashes over me in waves. This wasn’t random street crime or opportunistic harassment. These men knew who I was, where I’d be, how to corner me without causing a scene. They came prepared with scripts and tactics and a plan that ended with me disappearing into whatever hell they’d prepared.
“You were watching me,” I accuse. “Following me.”
“Yes.”
The admission is flat, unapologetic. He doesn’t try to soften it or explain it away. He was watching. He followed me here, probably followed me everywhere.
“I told you to stay away from me.”
“I told you I couldn’t.”
He starts moving toward the exit, pulling me with him. I dig my heels in, yanking against his grip. “I’m not going anywhere with you. Let go of me.”
“Not happening.”
