Chapter 3 - When the Predator Meets the Apex
Troy blinked, adrenaline momentarily overriding his shock as he turned to face the intruder.
"Who the hell do you think you are?" Troy snarled, puffing out his chest and stepping away from the bathroom doorway to block Rowan’s path. "You’re that corporate suit from her office—Ashby. What are you doing breaking into my apartment? I’ll call the cops right now, you rich bastard—"
Troy didn't finish the sentence.
Rowan didn't strike him with a fist. He didn't need to. With a speed that defied his calm exterior, Rowan closed the remaining distance between them, grabbed the lapels of Troy’s flannel shirt with both hands, and hoisted him off his feet with a sudden, violent heave.
The sound of fabric tearing mixed with Troy’s startled gasp.
Rowan slammed him backward against the living room drywall with enough force to rattle the cheap picture frames off the hooks. The plaster cracked in a spiderweb pattern right behind Troy’s head.
"You touch office property," Rowan whispered, his voice dangerously low, inches from Troy’s terrified face, "and we settle it in arbitration. You touch one of my people..."
He paused, letting the unfinished sentence hang in the air like a guillotine blade.
"...and arbitration isn't on the table."
"You're insane!" Troy choked out, his hands clawing uselessly at Rowan’s wrists, his previous bravado entirely evaporated. "She’s my girlfriend! This is a private matter! You have no right—"
"Piper," Rowan said, not breaking eye contact with the man pinned against the wall. "Pack your bag."
I scrambled up from the bathroom floor, my legs shaking, and walked into the bedroom. For two and a half years, every movement in this room had been regulated by fear. Every outfit I chose, every minute I spent packing for a weekend trip, had been scrutinized, criticized, and cross-examined.
Now, I threw a week’s worth of clothes into a canvas duffel bag without looking back.
When I walked back into the living room, Rowan still had Troy pinned against the wall with one hand, holding him effortlessly off the floor by his collar. Troy’s face was purple, his feet kicking uselessly a few inches above the carpet.
"If you ever look at her again," Rowan said softly, releasing his grip so suddenly that Troy collapsed into a heap on the floor, gasping for air and clutching his throat, "if you ever text her, call her, or mention her name within hearing distance of another human being, Ashby Capital will foreclose on every piece of debt your freelance production company has accumulated over the last five years. Do you understand me?"
Troy didn't answer. He just curled into a ball on the floor, weeping from pain and humiliation.
May you like
Rowan didn't look down at him again. He turned his dark eyes toward me, his expression softening just a fraction—just enough for me to see the human being buried beneath the corporate empire.
"Let's go, Piper."
