"What do you want?" I ask, though I already know. Predators like this always want the same thing: power over someone who hurt their pride.
Derek's expression shifts, becomes calculating, cruel. "I want Colletta gone. I want her to pack her shit and leave this wedding before tomorrow's ceremony. Let Monica have one day without her embarrassing little sister making it about herself."
"Fuck you, Derek." Colletta's voice shakes but holds, fury threading through the fear. She steps out from behind me, chin lifted despite the way her hands tremble at her sides. "Monica invited me. This is her wedding, not yours."
"Yeah, but I'm the Best Man, sweetheart." He says it with such smug satisfaction that my vision briefly tints red around the edges. "And Monica cares what I think. So when I tell her you hired some random orc bodyguard off Craigslist to play pretend because you couldn't handle seeing me happy, she's going to be humiliated. The whole family will be talking about it for years."
"Then tell her," I say, the words coming out harder than I intend, each one a stone thrown with precision. "Explain the contract. Make your accusation."
Derek blinks, clearly not expecting this. "What?"
"The mission parameters included social escort services and protective detail." I take a deliberate step forward, using my size the way I have been trained, watching Derek's bravado flicker as he has to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact. "There is no deception in that. Colletta hired professional services. She paid the agreed rate. The contract was fulfilled according to terms."
"You're seriously going to stand there and pretend this is normal?" Derek sputters, backpedaling slightly. "You're a fake boyfriend. Everyone will laugh at her."
"Perhaps," I acknowledge, voice dropping lower, quieter, the tone I use before combat when I want my opponent to understand exactly how outmatched they are. "Or perhaps they will ask why you spent your time investigating Colletta's personal life instead of supporting your friend's wedding. Why did you feel so threatened by her happiness that you needed to sabotage it."
His face flushes an ugly shade of crimson. "I'm not threatened by?—"
"You are." I let the truth sit between us, blunt and immovable. "You are threatened because she replaced you. Upgraded. And now you cannot tolerate the evidence of your own inadequacy."
For a moment I think he might actually take a swing at me. His fists clench, his body coils with impotent rage. I almost hope he tries. The contract technically allows defensive action.
But Colletta's hand grabs my arm, her fingers digging into the muscle with surprising strength.
"Kruk. Stop." Her voice cracks on my name. "Just... stop."
I look down at her, confused by the plea in her eyes, the way her face has gone pale beneath the sunset's glow.
"Derek's right," she whispers, and the words feel like a blade slipping between my ribs, precise and devastating. "If Monica finds out I lied to her about... about having a neurosurgeon boyfriend, about having any of this together... it'll ruin her day. She'll spend her wedding worrying about me instead of celebrating, and I can't... I can't do that to her."
"You did nothing wrong. The contract was legitimate. Your choice to hire protection services does not diminish?—"
"I hired a fake boyfriend because I couldn't face my ex alone!" The confession bursts out of her, raw and painful. "That's pathetic, Kruk. That's the definition of pathetic. And Derek's going to make sure everyone knows it unless I leave, so..."
She takes a shuddering breath, her eyes going glassy with unshed tears.
"You're fired."
The words hit harder than any blow I have taken in combat. Cleaner. More final.
"Colletta—"
"Go." She pulls away from me, wrapping her arms around herself like she is trying to hold her own pieces together. "Please. Just... the contract is terminated. I'll pay you for the full weekend, obviously, but I need you to go. Now."
I stand frozen, every tactical instinct screaming at me that this is wrong, that retreating leaves her vulnerable, exposed to a threat I am trained to neutralize.
But she is not asking me to neutralize Derek.
She is asking me to leave.
The mission parameters have changed. The client has terminated the contract.
I should acknowledge the order and withdraw. This is how professional engagements conclude. Clean. Transactional. No complications.
Except my chest feels like someone has carved out everything important and left only the hollow space where certainty used to live.
"Understood," I hear myself say, the word tasting like ash and defeat. "The contract is terminated."
