Chapter 3 - The Lion's Shadow
Khloe could not find her voice. Her heart beat against her ribs like a trapped bird, each thud ringing in her ears.
For two years, she had walked on eggshells around Liam. Two years of subtle cruelty, cruel insults masked as concern, and slow, calculated isolation. Even after she finally broke free six months ago, he had shadowed her—showing up at her boutique design firm, sending flowers that felt like surveillance, waiting outside her apartment until she started looking over her shoulder every time she unlocked her front door.
Liam had always felt invincible, an untouchable golden boy from an old-money family who believed the world existed to bend to his will.
And in less than ninety seconds, Victor Russo had dismantled him with one hand.
"Khloe," Victor said again. His voice was lower now, velvety and dark.
"I... I can handle my own problems, Mr. Russo," she managed to say, though the quiver in her tone betrayed her bravado.
Victor tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes narrowing in appraisal. A faint, knowing smirk touched the corner of his lips. "Is that what you were doing? Handling it? Because from my table, it looked as though he was about to fracture your radius."
Before she could pull away, Victor reached out. His fingers were warm, broad, and calloused against her skin. He didn't grab her. He slid his palm beneath her forearm, lifting her wrist with an unexpected gentleness that made her breath hitch.
The contrast was staggering. The same hands that had snapped a man’s bone without a second thought were now treating her bruised wrist as if it were spun glass.
He examined the ugly, darkening purple marks circling her delicate skin. A cold muscle twitched along his jawline.
"I should have broken his arm," Victor said flatly.
"No," Khloe gasped, instinctively stepping closer, her free hand lightly brushing against his lapel before she realized what she was doing and froze. "No more violence. Please. Everyone is looking at us."
Victor glanced around the dining room with absolute disinterest. "Let them look. If anyone has an opinion, they are welcome to voice it."
Unsurprisingly, every patron in the restaurant promptly found something intensely interesting on their plates. The maître d' hurried over, carrying a silver tray with an ice pack wrapped in a clean linen napkin and a glass of sparkling water. His hands shook so violently the glass rattled against the silver.
"M-Mr. Russo," the manager stammered, bowing slightly. "We are so terribly sorry for the disruption. The bill has been entirely taken care of, of course. May I call your car around to the front?"
"Not yet, Marcus," Victor said without taking his eyes off Khloe. "Bring the ice here. Then bring two glasses of the '45 Romanée-Conti to booth six. And make sure nobody enters that section."
"Immediately, sir."
"Wait," Khloe said, her pride flaring up despite the shock running through her veins. "Mr. Russo, thank you for stepping in, really. But I'm leaving. I need to go home."
Victor took the ice pack from the tray and carefully pressed it against her wrist. The cold shocked her skin, making her hiss softly through her teeth. Victor didn't let go of her arm. Instead, he took a step forward, closing the space between them until she was surrounded by the scent of expensive sandalwood, crisp winter air, and aged tobacco.
"You aren't going home," he said, his tone leaving zero room for argument. "Liam's car was parked outside your apartment building yesterday at midnight. Do you think I didn't know?"
Khloe's eyes widened in horror. "You... you were watching me?"
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"I watch over investments that interest me, Miss Hayes," Victor replied smoothly, steering her with a gentle hand at the small of her back toward the secluded leather booth in the back corner of the room. "And right now, you are the most compelling thing in this city."
***
