The handler adjusted his tie like he thought it made him powerful.
Slick bastard.
Fake smile. Expensive cologne. Greasy confidence.
His eyes flicked from me to Kennedy like I was just an obstacle in his perfectly plotted little PR plan.
“This is a media disaster,” he started, voice thick with that corporate condescension. “Career suicide. You’re a liability to the franchise.” He turned to her now, all charm dipped in venom. “You’re walking out of a mansion into a motel. Out of a name and into a scandal. You think this ends in a fairytale?” A beat. A smile that made my fists itch. “It ends in court.”
Every word was a fucking knife.
I saw it—the flicker in her eyes. Doubt. Shame. Hurt.
And that was it.
That was the match.
I stepped forward—slow, deliberate.
The pavement cracked under my boots. Or maybe that was just me holding the line.
I closed the distance until he had no choice but to look up at me. “Back. The fuck. Off.”
Flat. Cold. Measured.
Not a shout—a sentence.
Jake stepped forward, like he forgot who the fuck I was. “You don’t own her.”
I didn’t even look at him.
Just kept my eyes locked on the handler like a predator watching a rat try to bark.
“She walked into my world on her own.” Voice low. Dead calm. “You didn’t lose her. You gave her away.”
The silence cracked like thunder.
Kennedy shifted beside me. Her breath sped up.
But she didn’t run.
She never fucking ran.
The handler opened his mouth again—some rehearsed threat, probably.
I cut him off before the first syllable left his tongue. “You think I won’t bury you in front of this courthouse?” My voice dropped lower—lethal quiet. “You think I give a shit about your contracts, your press releases, your clean little scandals?”
I stepped closer. He leaned back.
Good.
“You don’t control her anymore. I do. And I don’t share.”
He scoffed. Like I was just heat with no follow-through.
He had no fucking clue who he was talking to.
I turned to Kennedy, body still between her and them—my voice softer now, but no less intense. “You ready?”
