Chapter 4: Victory

There was a split second, just one, where I felt victorious.

Like I’d done something. Like I’d made a dent in his perfect life. Lila had said I lacked drive, danger and so on but I just punched the guy she left me for. If that wasn’t drive or the reckless edge she was looking for I don’t know what is.

I just made her eat her words.

However, that split second ended when he straightened, rubbed his jaw once, and looked down at the cigar now lying sadly on the ground like a fallen soldier.

Then he looked at me.

No expression. No pain. No real reaction at all.

Just a look.

One that sent a cold jolt down my spine.

He reached into his inner pocket, pulled out another cigar like the one I’d knocked away meant nothing, and lit it with calm, practiced hands.

Like I hadn’t just punched him in the face.

Like I didn’t even exist.

“You reek of desperation,” he said, exhaling smoke through his nose like a damn dragon. “Is this the part where you cry on my shoes?”

My jaw clenched.

“You don’t deserve her,” I snapped, taking a shaky step forward, half-sure I was going to fall. “You think just because you’ve got the face and the money and the, the aura or whatever, you get to treat people like trash?”

“I didn’t take anything,” he replied coolly. “I don’t know who you’re talking about but if she came to me, then she did. Willingly. Happily. Loudly, if I remember right.” The same infuriating smirk returned with the last sentence before exhaling smoke like a goddamn exhaust pipe.

Oh.

Oh, fuck him.

“That’s not, she was mine!” I shouted, my voice bouncing off the alley walls. “We were happy! She was supposed to be, I was going to propose, you asshole!”

“And now you’re here,” he said, lips curling into an infuriating smirk. “Drunk. Sloppy. Crying about a girl who left you for a better option.”

Better. Better?

My hands curled into fists.

“I’m not crying.”

“No,” he said, eyes flicking down at me like I was chewed gum under his shoe. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”

I didn’t think.

I just swung again.

But this time, he caught me.

Mid-air.

His hand wrapped around my wrist like a steel cuff, tight and unrelenting. I tried to pull back, but he didn’t budge.

He didn’t even flinch.

His grip tightened just a little, enough to make my chest heave. Enough to remind me I was in way over my head.

And he stepped closer.

Not rushed. Not angry. Just slow. Measured. Like a man fully aware of how much he scared people.

“Try that again,” he said, voice low and sharp, “and I’ll break more than your pride.”

His breath smelled like smoke and spice and something expensive I couldn’t name. His face was so close now I could see the flecks of blue in his eyes.

It should’ve scared me. It should’ve made me run. But all I could think was, God, he really was prettier up close. And that pissed me off even more.

“Let me go,” I snapped.

His grip didn’t loosen. Not even a little.

“I said, let me go. You piece of shit.”

He didn’t respond. He just looked at me, that same bored, sharp gaze, and then turned on his heel.

And dragged me with him.

Literally.

I stumbled after him like some damn handbag, trying to yank my wrist free, but his hand was ironclad. People stared as we re-entered the club, eyes flicking over us as the music swallowed us whole again. I could feel the bass pounding in my ribs, but it was nothing compared to how loud my heartbeat had gotten.

“What the hell are you doing?” I hissed, half-walking, half-tripping behind him.

He didn’t even glance back.

Up the stairs we went. Past the velvet ropes. Past the crowd. Past a bouncer who gave him a nod and a quiet “Mr. Wolfe.” Oh.

Oh no.

Of course he had a name like that.

And of course the VIP area had leather couches and moody lighting and air that smelled like wealth and exclusivity.

At the top of the stairs, he slowed. There was a woman waiting, the same one he’d been talking to earlier. Beautiful. Dressed in a silk dress that looked like it cost more than my entire wardrobe. She gave him a coy smile and handed him a keycard.

Her eyes flicked to me. Then lingered.

Her smile wavered into something curious. Then a smirk. Like she’d just realized something. Like she knew.

I immediately looked away, face burning.

Someone shoot me. Please.

The bastard didn’t say anything to her. He just took the card and resumed walking. Dragging me behind like a misbehaving pet.

We stopped at a sleek black door at the end of the hallway. He swiped the keycard, pushed it open, then finally let go of my wrist just long enough to shove me inside.

I stumbled in. The door clicked shut behind me.

Locked.

My heart dropped. Was I about to be murdered? Abused? Was I about to be the headline of the news tomorrow. ’Useless man found dead on the street by a nightclub.’ No. No.

The room was dim, glowing with soft, ambient light and the low hum of bass still muffled through the walls. Luxurious. Intimate. Too intimate.

I spun around.

He was standing by the door, fingers still on the lock, cigar back in hand. That smile on his face, cruel, quiet, confident. Like a cat who’d just trapped something small and wounded in a box.

My stomach twisted.

“What the hell is this?” I snapped, backing up a step.

Mr. Handsome exhaled a slow stream of smoke, the corner of his mouth twitching upward like this was all some twisted joke.

“You wanted my attention,” he said smoothly. “Now you have it.”

“What are you gonna do to me?” I asked, voice thin, heart hammering.

He smiled.

That slow, devilish, unholy smile. The kind of smile that made you feel like sin was breathing down your neck.

“Well,” he said, stepping away from the door, his tone almost playful, “that depends on what you’re hungry for.”

My whole body tensed.

He was coming closer, smoke curling from his lips, steps lazy and confident, like he already knew how this would end.

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