"You hit me."
Jordin stared at her as if he couldn't quite fathom it. His anger was a palpable, light thing, and his eyes held a dark, dangerous flicker of absolute annoyance.
His low tone sent a sharp chill straight down Elsa's spine. She looked up at him—his eyes blazed with annoyance as he kept one hand cupped tightly over his throbbing eye.
"I'm going to fucking teach you a lesson," he said, his voice turning to ice. He shoved himself off the couch, still clutching his face.
Elsa's body recoiled. The look in his eyes told her everything she needed to know. Without a single second of hesitation, she turned and bolted for the door.
Jordin didn't like that she was fleeing. Near the exit, a bodyguard spotted her hurrying away; unaware of any commotion, he assumed it was just another frantic employee rushing through a shift change—until Jordin's furious voice echoed from inside the suite.
"Get Elsa!" Jordin roared, annoyed that she dared to slip away from him.
Panic gripped Elsa's chest. She couldn't think of anything except getting as far away as possible.
The bodyguard stepped into the VIP room, immediately alert. "Get her," Jordin snapped, wincing as he pressed against his stinging eye. The bodyguard gave a short nod and hurried out to track her down.
"I'm going to fucking screw you, Elsa," Jordin muttered to the empty air, his voice laced with annoyance. He was livid that she had struck him. He sank back onto the couch, his jaw locked tight with a dark thought: If I get my hands on you again, I'll break you until you're begging for mercy.
Moments later, Judith, a co-worker passing by after dropping off a tray, heard fragments of the shouting. She caught wind of a VIP guest claiming an employee named Elsa had just struck him, and that security was actively hunting down one of their own. Piecing the chaotic puzzle together, Judith knew she had to step in and manage the situation before the VIP's rage boiled completely over. She slipped into the room.
"Your fucking staff hit me," Jordin spat, sitting with his legs spread wide on the couch, glaring icly at her. "She actually hit me." He pressed a hand back over his bruised eye.
"I deeply apologize for my co-worker's actions, sir. I hope you're alright?" Judith's tone was carefully polished, masking the unease she felt under his cold, distant glare.
"I'm fine," Jordin answered curtly.
As quickly as the jagged anger had flared, it drained away. The heavy edge in his voice dulled. He shouldn't have lost his temper with Elsa like that; deep down, he knew he was at fault for pushing her too far.
"I'm deeply sorry, sir. It won't happen again," Judith pressed, offering a reassuring smile. "She would never act that way. She'll definitely apologize. Definitely." Her eyes promised she would handle the errant employee herself. She desperately wanted to ask what had actually transpired, but the impenetrable frost in Jordin's look kept her mouth firmly shut.
Jordin was still pissed—mostly at himself for letting things get so rough—but he forced the irritation down. He gave Judith a nonchalant, dismissive glance, effectively sweeping Elsa's misconduct under the rug.
"I'm sorry for this, sir. She'll never do it again," Judith repeated smoothly.
"She better," Jordin said in a flat, matter-of-fact tone. He wasn't truly angry anymore; he had already dismissed the incident. Judith gave a compliant, deferential nod and backed out of the room.
Downstairs in the bustling main club, Elsa's heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Nothing good ever came from crossing a man like Jordin. He had looked terrifying when she struck him, and she felt the sickening realization that she had just messed with forces far beyond her control.
She stood frozen for a split second in the middle of the crowded floor, the club's bass vibrating through the air. Then she saw them: men in black suits, sharp eyes scanning the room, closing in.
Panic clawed viciously up her throat. Maybe I should give in. Go back. Apologize.
Who are you kidding? a desperate voice screamed inside her head. Men like him could destroy her with a word. If he got his hands on her now, it wouldn't just be an assault—it would be a nightmare from which she'd never wake up. No one here would care if she vanished into thin air.
She ran.
Shoving desperately through the wall of bodies, she fought her way toward the main exit, bursting through the doors and out into the cool air of the parking lot.
Blinded by terror, she sprinted forward—and slammed hard into a solid, unyielding chest.
Stumbling backward, she looked up, gasping for air.
It was Silas. His sharp features were carved into a stunned expression, and his piercing eyes looked down at the disheveled woman who had just collided with him. She looked familiar. Those light brown eyes. Those pleading, trembling lips.
In that instant, it clicked for Silas. The bookstore. This was the same woman who had bumped into him that day.
Instinctively, Elsa reached out, grabbing his arm as a desperate plea formed on her lips. She needed help—anyone's help.
"Please," Elsa begged, her voice shaking violently. "Could you take me to Hoxton Street?"
Silas looked down at the trembling woman clutching his sleeve, her hair loose and messy around her face.
When he didn't answer immediately, panic flared. Elsa pulled back, ready to bolt leaving the club premises. Terror flickered across her face. He won't help me. Jordin's men are going to catch me.
Before she could slip away, Silas caught her forearm with a firm, steady grip.
Elsa spun back, her heart racing.
"Come with me," Silas said, his tone carrying an innate, quiet authority.
Blinking up at him in sheer bewilderment, she allowed him to guide her toward his car, following without a second thought as he opened the passenger door.
"Get in," he instructed.
She scrambled inside as fast as she could, pulling the door shut. Silas slipped into the driver's seat and sped out of the parking lot, putting distance between them and the club. Behind them, a group of men in black suits poured out through the front doors, their gazes sweeping the area in a frantic search.
Elsa sank low into the front seat, shaking like a leaf, terrified that Jordin's enforcers would spot her through the glass.
Near the entrance, one of the bodyguards stopped to answer a phone call. A moment later, the frantic search abruptly ended; the men stood down, receiving the updated order: Stand down. Don't bother finding her.
Silas glanced sideways at her, keeping his eyes on the road. A quiet curiosity tugged at him—he wondered if she had just received devastating and he decided against prying.
Beside him, Elsa breathed a ragged sigh of relief, profoundly grateful that this total stranger had inadvertently saved her from a nightmare. Just the lingering thought of what Jordin would have done if he caught her made her stomach twist and turn with sickening anxiety. He had bitten her hard enough to bruise her soul, treating her like disposable property, and she utterly detested him for it.
Stealing a quick glance beside her, she noticed how calm, sharp, and reassuring Silas looked.
They crossed into Hoxton Street, the familiar neighborhood lights guiding their way. Silas slowed the car slightly, glancing over at her.
"Where can I drop you?" Silas asked smoothly.
"You can drop me by the shops just ahead," she said softly, watching the familiar storefronts roll past the window.
"Okay," he gave a short, polite nod.
"Thank you," she said.
"Sure," he responded.
He still wanted to ask why she had been running for her life through a club parking lot, but some unwritten boundary kept the question locked behind his lips.