“You want it? Then make me happy, and maybe I’ll give it back.” He tossed her bag aside and lunged, clawing at her clothes.
Cold air rushed in, terror clawing at Elena’s chest.
She fought wildly, but he pinned her down with ease, fumbling to strip her.
“No! Stop! Somebody help—”
But no one was near enough to hear.
Despair crashed over her. Then, out of nowhere, a scream split the air.
“Aaagh!”
Suddenly, the weight holding her down vanished.
Shaking, Elena scrambled backward. Tears blurred her vision, but through the haze she saw a tall, familiar silhouette standing between her and the attacker.
The newcomer grabbed the man and slammed a fist into his face.
The man shrieked under the onslaught, trying to fight back, but was kicked violently across the floor.
“Cover yourself.”
The terse command was followed by the weight of a still-warm suit jacket thrown over her.
The faint scent of cedar wrapped around her, strangely steadying her panicked heart. Clutching the jacket around her body, Elena finally saw who it was.
Damian Shaw—Adrian’s uncle, and the true head of the Shaw Corporation.
The attacker staggered toward a fire extinguisher in the corner, swinging it wildly. Damian sidestepped, twisted the man’s wrist until it snapped with a sickening crack.
“Ahhh!”
The man collapsed, writhing like a shrimp thrown into boiling water. Damian showed no hesitation, seizing his hair and smashing his head against the floor.
Blood sprayed. The man went limp, silent at last.
Assistants and bodyguards appeared as if from nowhere, dragging the unconscious body away.
Damian turned to Elena. Her gaze landed first on the fine line of his trousers, then traced upward along his tall frame to his cold, distinguished face.
Detached. Remote. Perfectly courteous.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
Elena nodded faintly, trying to stand. But her legs gave way after two steps, and she would have fallen had Damian not caught her.
His strong arm encircled her effortlessly, the cedarwood scent lingering close. Oddly, it steadied her.
“You’re in no condition to go back,” he said with a frown. “I’ll call Adrian.”
“No.” Elena shook her head.
She met Damian’s puzzled gaze, then forced a bitter smile. “He doesn’t care. And besides… he’s probably busy—with Vivian.”
Damian didn’t press further. He simply pulled out his phone and sent a message.
Soon, a sleek car rolled to a stop before them. “Get in.”
Elena almost asked where he was taking her, but one look at Damian’s expression made her swallow the question. She bent down and slipped inside.
The car pulled away. But it wasn’t heading toward her home.
She hesitated. “Where… are we going?”
Damian’s profile was cool and unreadable. “Do you really want to return like that?”
She glanced down at herself—torn clothes, bruises, one shoe missing. No, she couldn’t go home like this.
Silent, she followed him.
At last they arrived. Inside, he led her directly to a room. “It was sudden, so the other rooms aren’t ready. You can use this one. Clothes are prepared.”
“Thank you,” Elena said, still stiff and uneasy.
It was clearly his bedroom—black and white, minimalist, austere. Like him: cold, severe.
She dared not linger, lowering her gaze as she stepped into the bathroom.
Just before shutting the door, she glanced up—and locked eyes with Damian’s dark pupils. There was no visible emotion, yet her heart skipped violently.
A man and a woman, alone, a bathroom—too easy for the mind to wander.
She quickly closed the door, shutting out his gaze.
Only when his footsteps faded did she finally breathe and begin to wash.
Later, refreshed, she stepped out, planning to say goodbye.
But after searching the first floor and finding no trace of him, she froze when a voice floated down from upstairs:
“Looking for something?”
