The night air was sharp with the scent of gunpowder and fear. The narrow alley behind the restaurant where Lia Sheren had been supposed to meet her friend was now a crime scene—dark, chaotic, and trembling with the echoes of what had just happened.
She stood there, breathing hard, her palms scraped, her dress torn at the shoulder. A few meters away, three men lay sprawled on the ground—disarmed and unconscious, thanks to her quick reflexes and the expert precision of the man who now stood protectively in front of her.
Ken Phillian. Her fiancé.
His white shirt was slightly stained with dust, his knuckles red from impact, but his calm expression never wavered. The faint glint of the gun holstered under his jacket made it clear—he hadn't just come to take her out for dinner. He had come prepared to protect her.
"Are you hurt anywhere?" His voice was low, steady, but there was an unmistakable tremor underneath—a mix of fury and relief.
