Hard enough to make my arm throb.

Hard enough to remind myself that I still have control.

Barely.

Izzy doesn't move.

She just stands there.

Frozen.

Listening to these pathetic excuses for men talk about her like she's a goddamn investment piece.

Something to be maintained, trimmed, reshaped.

This is too much.

Way, way too much.

I gave her my word.

But fuck that.

Because what about her honor?

My hand is on the door.

I'm seconds from stepping onto the floor when I hear her voice through the headset.

"I'm really sorry," she says, tone perfectly neutral. "I'd love to go, but I have a meeting with Callahan to go over holiday security plans. I'll have to take a raincheck."

Something tightens in my chest.

It's not just that she said my name—it's the way she said it.

Like it's hers to use. Like she knows it means something.

Like she trusts that I'll be there.

My pulse kicks up, something possessive settling in my gut.

She called for me.

She chose me.

And I'm already moving.

I'm by her side before Evan can even process what she just said. He opens his mouth, already protesting. "Izzy, you're a manager. You can just reschedule. The holidays are months away⁠—"

Then he sees me.

And stops.

Because we both know who wins in a fight.

I stare at him, silent, unwavering.

I know what I look like.

Guys like him—the ones who can't even bench their own body weight—I scare them.

He'll make up for it with big talk and expensive watches, but at the end of the day?

He's intimidated.

And he knows it.

I glance between the two of them, my voice calm, steady, revealing nothing.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," I say smoothly. "But I need to steal her away."

I let it hang, then add, "For our security meeting."

Izzy gives them both a perfectly fake smile.

Before Evan can get another word out, I place my hand on the small of her back and lead her toward the employee area.

I can still hear them talking behind us.

Still hear Monroe laughing.

Still hear Evan muttering something under his breath.

But I don't care.

Because she's mine now.

DID WE JUST TRAUMA BOND?

IZZY

Cal's hand is on the small of my back. The pressure is light but firm, a silent claim that nobody in the room could possibly miss. His palm radiates warmth through the thin fabric of my blouse. He tells Evan and Monroe that he needs to steal me away.

Steal.

Like I'm something valuable.

Something worth taking.

Something that belongs somewhere else—with someone else.

He leads me away from them, his stride measured, unhurried. Not rushing me, not pulling me, just guiding with a quiet confidence that seems as natural to him as breathing.

Like he's giving them a moment to absorb it.

To let them see that I'm leaving with him.

To let Evan understand exactly what he's done.

I hate that I notice how his touch burns through the material, hate that I'm hyperaware of every square inch where his skin meets mine through the fabric. Hate that it makes my spine tingle, that it makes me feel safe even as I feel completely humiliated at what just happened. The conflict of emotions is almost dizzying—embarrassment from the scene with Evan and Monroe warring with the strange comfort of Cal's protective presence.

The soft tapping of my heels against the floor feels too loud in my ears as we walk, the murmur of conversation fading behind us. His steps are deliberate, his posture rigid but controlled, his presence beside me a solid wall between me and everything else.

The door to the VIP area closes behind us with a soft click that somehow echoes in my ears, and something in me cracks. Not enough to show. Not yet. But enough that I already feel the tears burning behind my eyes, the pressure building in my chest, my throat tightening with the effort of holding it all in. The air in the hallway feels suddenly too thin, too warm, not enough to fill my lungs properly.

We walk back to my office in complete silence. The hallway seems longer than usual, the carpet absorbing the sound of our footsteps, the air thick with words neither of us is saying.

I keep my head down, focusing on placing one foot in front of the other, on maintaining the illusion of composure for just a little longer. My hair falls forward, creating a curtain between me and the world, between me and him. The familiar scent of my shampoo—coconut and vanilla—surrounds me, offering a small comfort as I try to keep myself together.

My pulse is hammering, my throat thick, heavy with unshed tears. Evan has never done something like that before. He's crossed lines before, but not like this.

He's been cruel, sure. Dismissive. Manipulative. His comments about my body, my weight, my clothes—they've always been delivered with a smile, with a kiss on the cheek, with that tone that says he's just trying to help. Just trying to make me better. Always private, always wrapped in enough care to make me doubt whether I was overreacting.

But never that public. Never that brazen. Never humiliated me in front of people—at my own job—like I was some project he was working on. Like he was so proud of himself for getting me 'fixed.' Like I was a before-and-after advertisement for his exceptional taste and guidance.

I clench my hands into fists, nails biting into my palms, trying to hold myself together through sheer force of will. The pain cuts through the chaos—it’s something I can control. The crescent marks in my skin tether me here, keep me from slipping under.

Don't cry. Not in front of him. Not in front of Cal.

I feel Callahan's presence beside me, his body heat radiating even though we're not touching anymore. His energy always feels so big, like he’s so completely in control. He takes up space not just physically—though God knows his frame is imposing enough—but with something else, something intangible, something that makes the air around him feel charged.

The exact opposite of how I feel right now—small, diminished, shattered into pieces I'm desperately trying to hold together.

We reach my office, and I push inside without waiting, moving to my desk with quick steps, desperate for space. My eyes catch on the stack of inventory reports I'd been analyzing before Monroe's visit.

I automatically straighten the papers, a habit from years of organizing data to make sense of a chaotic world. Even now, with my emotions threatening to spill over, my hands move with practiced precision, aligning edges, smoothing corners, creating order where I can because everything else feels so out of control. The rustling of the papers fills the silence, giving me something to focus on besides the man standing behind me.

"I'm fine," I say, not that he asked. My voice is flat, empty, mechanical. The words come out rehearsed because they are—how many times have I said them before? How many times have I pretended to be okay when I wasn't? The phrase is worn smooth from overuse, a pebble I've carried in my pocket for years.

I don't look at him.

I can't.

If I do, I might break apart completely.

"Thanks," I add, still keeping my head down, blinking hard to force back the tears that threaten to spill over. My vision blurs at the edges, the colors of my spreadsheets running together. "But I need to get back to work."

I wait, hands still resting on the papers, body tense. The ticking of the clock on the wall marks each second, unnaturally loud in my quiet office.

I wait for the sound of him leaving. For the door to open and click shut. For the moment when I can finally let go, when I can stop holding myself together so tightly.