The deafening crack of splintering wood echoed like a gunshot. The heavy double doors flew open, the metal locking mechanism tearing out of the frame and bouncing across the expensive Persian rug.
Inside the sprawling office, Justina-Kayden's former fiancée-was sitting on the edge of the massive leather executive desk. Her silk blouse was unbuttoned halfway down her chest. Her face was a mask of sheer panic.
Standing right beside her, hastily adjusting the knot of his cheap tie, was Jerrad Haney. The quiet, pathetic executive assistant.
Justina's shock lasted exactly two seconds before it morphed into vicious, defensive arrogance. She slid off the desk, buttoning her shirt with shaking fingers.
"How the hell did you get in here, you beggar?" Justina shrieked, her voice echoing off the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Her eyes darted to my hand, still firmly encased in Kayden's. Her upper lip curled in profound disgust. "And I see your taste has plummeted along with your net worth. Picking up Schroeder family trash. A literal convict."
My blood ran cold, but I forced a razor-sharp smile onto my face.
"At least I'm getting paid to be here," I fired back, my voice smooth and lethal. "You're just giving it away to the help because you're too pathetic to handle a canceled wedding."
Justina's face turned violently red. She let out a wordless scream, lunged forward in her stiletto heels, and swung her hand in a wide arc, aiming a vicious slap at my face.
My reflexes, honed by years of surviving cell block fights, kicked in instantly.
I snapped my hand up, catching her wrist mid-air. My fingers dug brutally into her delicate bones. Using her own momentum against her, I shoved her backward with a sharp thrust of my arm.
Justina lost her balance on the stilettos. She stumbled backward, her arms flailing, and the small of her back slammed violently into the sharp corner of the mahogany desk. She let out a sharp cry of pain and crumpled to the floor.
Jerrad immediately rushed to her side. He knelt down, his hands hovering over her shoulders.
"Please, let's keep this civil," Jerrad said. His voice was soft, almost meek, but as he looked up at me, the light caught his glasses. For a split second, I felt a sudden, inexplicable chill run straight down my spine. Behind the meek expression, there was... nothing. A strange, unsettling emptiness that made my prison-honed instincts scream in silent warning.
Kayden hadn't even looked at Justina. He walked straight past the drama, heading directly for the oil painting on the far wall. He ripped the painting down, exposing a state-of-the-art wall safe.
He punched in a code. The keypad flashed red and let out a harsh, negative beep.
Justina laughed from the floor, clutching her back. "They changed the codes, Kayden! You have nothing!"
Kayden's face remained entirely blank. He reached into his inner suit pocket and pulled out a small, matte-black USB drive. He jammed it into a hidden diagnostic port beneath the keypad.
A green light on the drive began to blink furiously. Seven seconds later, the heavy steel bolts inside the door retracted with a loud clack. The safe swung open.
Justina's laughter choked off in her throat. She stared at the open safe in absolute horror.
Kayden reached inside. He bypassed the stacks of cash and pulled out a tarnished antique pocket watch and three unmarked manila folders.
Jerrad stood up. He took a step toward Kayden, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "Mr. Washington, those files are company property. I can't let you-"
Kayden turned his head. He didn't speak. He just looked at Jerrad. The sheer, suffocating weight of Kayden's killing intent filled the room.
Jerrad stopped mid-step. A visible bead of sweat formed on his forehead. He slowly lowered his hands and took a half-step backward.
Kayden shoved the files into his jacket. He walked back to me and took my hand again, his grip firm and possessive.
As we walked out, I deliberately dropped my shoulder and slammed it hard into Justina's arm as she tried to stand up. She let out a yelp and fell back onto the floor.
The sound of her screaming and throwing a glass paperweight at the wall followed us down the hall. I couldn't stop the small, victorious smile from touching my lips.
We stepped into the elevator. The doors slid shut.
The moment we were alone, the terrifying aura around Kayden vanished. He leaned his head back against the cold mirrored wall and closed his eyes. A sheen of cold sweat coated his forehead. He looked utterly exhausted.
I dug into my cheap purse, pulled out a folded tissue, and held it out to him.
Kayden didn't take the tissue. Instead, his large hand reached out and wrapped around my wrist. He pulled my hand toward his face, pressing my knuckles-and the tissue-against his damp forehead.
My breath hitched. The physical contact was jarringly intimate. I could feel the rapid, heavy thud of his pulse against my fingertips. The small elevator suddenly felt entirely devoid of oxygen.
We didn't speak the entire ride back to Brooklyn.
Kayden walked up to the apartment door. He pulled the white plastic keycard from his pocket and slid it through the electronic reader mounted on the frame. A soft beep confirmed the lock released.
He pushed it open.
A wave of destruction hit us. The sofa cushions were slashed open, white stuffing vomiting onto the floor. Every drawer had been ripped out and shattered. The apartment had been systematically, brutally ransacked.
