Which meant she could have handled herself at the club when those two men had boxed her in. She’d had too much to drink, sure, but she hadn’t been helpless. She wasn’t fragile.
She was layered. Capable. Dangerous in ways that intrigued me.What else didn’t I know about her?
I sat at my desk and opened the drawer, pulling out the small box I kept tucked inside.
Inside lay a bracelet.
I’d found it that night after dropping Nyah off. Something had glinted in the passenger footwell—a black rhinestone. When I searched under the seat, I found the bracelet itself, the clasp snapped clean through, and a few loose stones scattered across the carpet.
It hadn’t looked valuable. Fixing it had probably cost more than it was worth.
Still, I’d taken it to be repaired.
Now the clasp was whole again, the missing stones replaced so seamlessly it was impossible to tell it had ever been broken. I lifted it, letting it drape across my palm, the rhinestones catching the light just as they had when she’d moved through the club.
I hadn’t replaced it with something newer or better.
I hadn’t fixed it because it was broken.
I’d fixed it because it mattered… it mattered to her.
17
NYAH
The door closed behind Caleb, and I stood there staring at the floor, the echo of his words settling into the quiet.
I had no proof. No evidence. Just fear and assumptions shaped by past disappointments that had taught me to prepare for the worst before I ever allowed myself to hope for better.
I might have misjudged Caleb. And worse—I might have misjudged his intentions entirely. I hadn’t trusted him. No matter how cooperative he had suddenly become, no matter how capable or composed he appeared, a part of me had refused to believe it wasn’t calculated. Men like him didn’t change overnight. They didn’t soften without a reason. And I had learned, painfully and repeatedly, to watch for the moment when the ground shifted beneath me—when confidence turned into control, when charm revealed itself as strategy.
That unease had driven me downstairs earlier, searching for space to think. I had walked past the staff cafeteria, tuning out the clatter of cutlery and low hum of conversation, and headed for the bathroom. I needed silence. I needed a place where no one demanded clarity from me, where I didn’t have to analyze tone or intention or hidden meaning.
The moment I had pushed the bathroom door open, I knew something was wrong.
A tall white man stood near the sinks, his presence dominating the small room. A jagged scar cut across his cheek, pulling one side of his mouth into a permanently cruel twist. In his hand was a knife, the blade catching the harsh fluorescent light.
In front of him stood Linda—one of our housekeepers—her back pressed against the tiled wall, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed uncontrollably.
My heart slammed hard against my ribs. When his attention snapped to me, his grip tightened around the knife, and his eyes narrowed. “Step back,” he yelled. “I came here for money, and I’m not leaving until I get it.” He slashed the air in a zigzag motion.
The threat was real and immediate. Lethal. I forced myself to stay calm even as adrenaline surged through me. Panic would get Linda killed. Panic would get me killed.
I kept my voice measured and my movements deliberate as I looked at her. “What’s going on?” I asked.
Through broken sobs, she managed, “He’s my ex-husband. I filed a restraining order against him for domestic violence. Now he wants money… for drugs.”
Rage burned through me, hot and precise, cutting through the fear. I turned back to him. “How much do you want?” I asked evenly. “What will it take for you to leave her alone?”
“I want five hundred dollars. Now,” he said, his mouth twisting into a sadistic smile. Then his eyes darkened. “But what makes you think I’ll leave her alone?”
That answer sealed it. This man didn’t deserve negotiation. He didn’t deserve appeasement. He needed to be stopped. Luckily for me, I was wearing heels. I waited. I watched the way his weight leaned forward, the way his attention flickered between Linda and me, the slight lag in his reaction time. Then I turned to her and said calmly, “I want you to go ask Amy for the money so you can give it to?—”
“She’s not going any—” he snapped.
That was the opening. In one fluid burst of motion, I kicked the knife out of his hand, drove my heel down hard into his right foot,slammed my elbow into his nose, and brought my knee up into his groin. Five seconds. Maybe less.
“Call 911 and get security down here—now!” I shouted as adrenaline surged through me. He barely had time to register what had happened before I punched him square in the face and kicked him in the stomach. Already bent double, he stumbled backward and hit his head against the sink with a sickening crack. Blood poured from his nose. I kicked his leg once more, just to be certain he was out cold.
