The longer Damian stayed away, the more I drowned. I lifted the next glass with numb fingers, but before I could drink, a hand stopped me cold.
Ference’s grip closed over the glass, steady and unyielding.
“That’s enough, Miss Daisy.” His voice was low, calm, but iron-hard.
I stared at him through glassy eyes. “Let me,” I mumbled, pulling weakly against his hand. But Ference didn’t move.
With quiet patience, he pressed the glass back down, his eyes locked on mine. “Enough,” he repeated, laying a firm hand on my shoulder. “I won’t watch you destroy yourself. Not while I’m on duty.”
Myfingers slackened around the glass, hesitating. His presence radiated authority, his resolve unshakable. Reluctantly, I let it go. The haze of alcohol lifted just enough for me to feel the weight of his gaze—and for the first time that night, I stopped.
“You have to stop.”
“Why? What does it matter?”
Ference sighed and pulled me to my feet. “Come on. I’ll get you out of here and to Mr. Miller’s home.”
I resisted for a moment, but I was too drunk to fight. When I tried to stand, dizziness crashed over me, and I stumbled into Ference’s arms. He caught me at the waist and steered me toward the limousine.
Outside, in front of the club, he reached for his phone. “I’ll inform Mr. Miller.”
“Don’t bother, Ference,” I called out. “He surely already has company.”
Moments later, the club doors burst open and Damian stormed out. His expression was cool and controlled, but I caught the flicker of concern in his eyes.
“What happened?” he asked sharply.
“Go fuck that Luisa, like you did a few days ago!” I shouted from inside the car.
Damian and Ference exchanged a look. Damian cursed, then slammed the car door shut. “Take her to my place. Ference, ride with her.”
Ference slid in beside me, silent, his concern evident. “I’m sorry, Miss Elfhorn, that you always lose yourself like this. I would give my life for Mr. Miller, but I am sorry for you.”
I stared at the floor of the limousine, my voice barely audible. “Thank you, Ference.” Tears spilled down my face. He shifted closer and handed me a tissue. I buried my face in my hands and wept. His arm settled around me, steady and protective—a quiet shield in the storm.
The ride to Damian’s apartment passed in silence, city lights flickering through the windows. Ference’s steadiness gave me a fragile sliver of comfort.
When we arrived, only a faint dizziness reminded me of the alcohol. Ference stayed close as we moved toward the elevators.
“Miss Daisy.”
The weight in his tone made me look up. “What is it?”
“Something’s not right,” he murmured, scanning the space. “The man from the lobby—and the attendant who usually sits here—they’re gone.”
I looked around. The building felt abandoned, unnervingly still.
“I’ll take you back to the car. I’ll go into Mr. Miller’s apartment first, alone.”
Ference gripped my wrist, gentle yet firm, and led me through the lobby with quick, decisive movements. But before we could reach the door, men leapt from behind the reception desk. They moved with brutal precision.
I was shoved hard to the floor. My head smacked the tiles, vision wavering. Panic surged through me. Ference reacted instantly, pivoting with the sharpness of a trained fighter. His fist cracked against one attacker, sending the man staggering.
Two more lunged. Ference dodged with fluid speed, years of training carved into every movement. He landed a kick in one man’s stomach, driving the air from him. Another tried to grab hold, but Ference dropped low, seized his arm, and slammed him onto the ground in one swift motion.
But there were too many. One pulled a weapon. Ference’s hand went instinctively to his holster, but they were on him, crowding him in, cutting off his reach. A baton struck across his back. A heavy man lunged, and another blow cracked against his skull. Ference staggered, balance slipping. Before he could recover, pistols were raised, barrels leveled at both of us.
“If you make even a single move,” one hissed, pressing the gun forward, “I’ll shoot her in the head.”
