"I mean it," I say. "This is over."

His expression shifts. And suddenly, the anger is back.

Real anger.

Not just annoyance.

Not just manipulation.

Real, boiling rage. His face flushes crimson, a vein pulsing at his temple like it might burst.

He stands up abruptly and I tense, my heart starting to pound. Then he walks to the door. I think maybe he's leaving and this is over. But then, he locks it. I hear the metallic click as it slides into place, the sound of my escape route closing.

I take a small step back, the edge of my desk pressing against the back of my thighs. "Evan," I say carefully.

He turns back to me. "You're not breaking up with me."

My heart is pounding now, to the point where I can hear its beat. "Evan," I repeat, trying to keep my voice steady. "Yes. I am."

I see it before it happens, but there's nothing I can do to stop it. His body tenses, his muscles rigid beneath his expensive Oxford. His hands clench into white-knuckled fists and his face contorts, transforming from handsome to monstrous in seconds. And then, he lunges at me.

I try to move, try to run, but he's too fast. He grabs me, shoving me back against the desk. The edge digs painfully into my spine, sending pain shooting up my back. His hand wraps around my throat. I gasp, clawing at him, fingernails scraping against his wrist, trying desperately to break his hold. I kick my legs, my heel connecting with his shin.

"You're not ruining us, Izzy!" he snarls, spit flying from his lips, landing on my cheek. "You're not wasting all those years of my life just to walk away now!"

I struggle, my vision blurring at the edges, my pulse roaring in my ears. I twist, shove, try to break free, but the office is too small.

There's nowhere to go.

He throws me to the ground, pinning me down with his weight. My head cracks against the floor. Stars explode behind my eyes, bright and disorienting.

Panic overtakes me.

It drowns out everything else.

I kick, scratch, shove—anything to get him off me. My nails catch his cheek, drawing blood. I see the red line appear, but it doesn't stop him.

He's too strong.

Too determined.

His hands are everywhere.

Gripping.

Tearing.

Taking.

"Evan, stop!" I gasp, thrashing under him. The carpet burns against my exposed skin, rough and unyielding.

He doesn't stop.

He presses his weight against me, pinning me down, my softer curves crushed beneath his angular frame. I can feel every bone in his body digging into mine.

My lungs burn with each desperate gasp for air. My muscles scream as I struggle against his grip. My mind fragments, unable to process what's happening, unable to believe this is real. That a man I spent years of my life with could do something like this.

He grabs my wrists, yanking them above my head, holding them there with one hand while the other⁠—

No.

I won’t let this happen to me.

I buck against him, desperate, frantic. My knee connects with his thigh, missing its target by inches.

His breath is hot against my face, the scent of coffee and mint invading my nostrils. His fingers dig bruises into my flesh that I know will bloom purple tomorrow.

"All you did was deny me," he snarls, voice thick with rage and lust—a toxic, predatory hunger that makes my skin crawl. "Tell me ‘no.’ Well, guess what?"

He yanks at my blouse, the buttons popping and scattering across the floor.

"I'm not taking that from you anymore."

No, no, no.

I scream.

I thrash.

I try to twist free, to break away, but I can't.

He's too heavy.

Too much.

His knee wedges between my legs, forcing them apart. My skirt rides up, exposing my thighs.

I choke on a sob, fighting harder, writhing beneath him. Tears blur my vision, hot tracks streaming down my temples and into my hair.

A memory floods my mind.

Cal.

His voice: "I'm always watching. If you ever need an out, you signal me."

Signal him.

Say his name.

"Cal—"

The moment his name leaves my lips, Evan's hand swings.

His hand connects with my ear and pain explodes through my skull. It’s white-hot and disorienting. My head whips to the side, my vision tilting as my world becomes a kaleidoscope of blurred shapes.

My ears ring, a high-pitched whine that drowns out all other sound.

The world spins faster.

Darkness.

HE UNZIPPED HIS PANTS. SO I UNHINGED HIS JAW.

CAL

Izzy's been avoiding me all morning.

She thinks I haven't noticed.

But I have.

She's been sidestepping me, moving through the store like she's got blinders on, keeping her head down, avoiding eye contact. She rushes from one department to the next, all business, all focus—except I know her well enough now to see that it's forced.

Gone is our usual rhythm—the playful exchanges, the knowing glances across the floor, the slight curve of her lips when I catch her eye. Instead, there's a deliberate distance, a careful choreography to stay out of my orbit.

And I let her.

I give her space, respecting the invisible boundary she's drawn. I don't ambush her between the aisles or manufacture reasons to be in her presence. Because I understand what she needs right now—time to process, to sort through the tangled mess of emotions after our kiss.

She'll come back to me when she's ready. So I give her space. But that doesn't mean I'm not watching.

By the time the store starts winding down for the day, I'm back in the security suite, leaned back in my chair, eyes locked on one monitor.

Izzy’s sitting in her office. Her phone is clutched in her hand, but she remains still—no scrolling through messages, no typing emails, no productive movement whatsoever. Just staring, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.

I know exactly what she's doing.

Working up the courage.

Her fingers flex around her phone, loosening, tightening. A deep breath in, then out.

She calls him.

I watch her closely, tracking every micro-expression, every shift in her features. The moment he answers, I see the relief cross her face.

Then, annoyance.

I already know. Evan's being a dick. She's trying to meet up with him. He's making it difficult. But she's pushing through it. She's doing it anyway. And even from here, I can tell she's holding firm.

Another thirty minutes pass. I'm watching the clock, waiting, ready.

"Callahan."

I press a finger to my earpiece. The plastic is cool against my skin. "Yeah."

"Got a guy asking for Russo." It's Ramirez calling from the front of the store.

I knew this was coming.

Through gritted teeth, I force myself to take a slow breath before I speak. Because this is her moment. She needs to do this on her own. Even though every instinct is clawing to intervene.

"Call her. Let her know. Then take him up."

Ramirez confirms and I go back to watching. The security feed shows Evan strutting through the main entrance, chin lifted with his usual arrogance. Ramirez escorts him through the sales floor. They reach her office door, and he hesitates, giving Izzy a silent, questioning look. She responds with a small nod.

Ramirez lingers, reluctant. Then he leaves them alone. I turn on the audio feed, the soft click of the switch echoing in the quiet room. And I listen.

Izzy tells him it's over. She stands her ground without apology or compromise. She refuses to be manipulated by his tactics.

I'm so fucking proud of her, because he's trying. He's doing what men like him always do—twisting words, turning it around, making himself the victim, grasping at any thread of control he has left. But she's not falling for it.