My ex asked who could ever love a woman like me in front of a full restaurant, right before the city's most feared man kissed me in front of everyone.

Three days passed in a whirlwind of change. With Vincent’s resources handling the media, the public narrative began to shift. The gossip outlets stopped mocking the diner footage and started calling it the romantic event of the season. Still, I insisted on going back to my apartment to pack my personal belongings; I couldn't simply vanish into Vincent’s luxury without maintaining some grip on my former reality.

Vincent had insisted on sending guards with me, but I begged for just an hour of privacy inside my own home. Reluctantly, he agreed to keep his men stationed down on the street and in the hallway outside my third-floor door.

I was taping up a cardboard box full of books when the fire escape window in my kitchen squeaked open.

I spun around, a pair of heavy shears in my hand, my heart slamming into my ribs.

Tyler climbed through the window, smelling strongly of whiskey, his hair disheveled and his eyes wild. He looked nothing like the polished, arrogant junior broker who had dumped me.

"Tyler!" I gasped, backing away toward the front door. "How did you get up here?"

"The fire escape in the alley," he slurred, slamming the window shut behind him. "You locked me out! You changed your number! Do you have any idea what you've done to me, Emily?"

"What *I've* done to you?" I yelled, incredulous. "You humiliated me in public! You told the world I was disgusting!"

"And now my firm is firing me!" Tyler screamed, taking a threatening step forward. "My boss had three meetings canceled this morning because the clients found out Vincent DeLuca wants my head on a pike! I can't get a loan, my landlord is evicting me, and it’s all your fault!"

"Stay back, Tyler," I warned, raising the shears. "Vincent’s men are right outside the door."

He laughed bitterly, though a tremor of fear rattled his voice. "Vincent DeLuca doesn't give a damn about you! He's using you as a prop! A PR move to make a vicious gangster look like a sentimental prince charming! Look at yourself, Emily! You really think a billionaire who could have any supermodel in Europe wants a fat, ordinary girl from Southside?"

His words stung, cutting right through the fragile shell of confidence Vincent had been helping me build. But before Tyler could take another step, the heavy wooden front door didn't just open—it shattered inward off its hinges with a deafening crash.

Two suited men burst into the room with weapons drawn. Behind them stood Vincent.

He didn't have his tailored jacket on. He was wearing black from head to toe, and the air around him dropped ten degrees. When his eyes locked onto Tyler standing two feet from me, a terrifying calm settled over his features.