Chapter 3

"Kneel?" I repeated, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. My voice was a low whisper, barely audible above the hushed murmurs of the growing crowd. "You actually want me to kneel?"

Isa straightened, her chin tilted defiantly. "That' s right, darling. And beg for forgiveness. For being such a pathetic, desperate little thing." She crossed her arms, a look of smug satisfaction on her face. "Consider it a lesson in humility."

A sharp, humorless laugh escaped my lips. It was a raw, guttural sound that surprised even me. "A lesson in humility," I echoed, my voice gaining strength, tinged with a dangerous edge. "From you?" I shook my head slowly, still smiling without any humor. "That' s rich, Isa. Truly rich."

Isa' s face flushed crimson. Her eyes, usually so calculating, now blazed with uncontrolled fury. Her perfect composure shattered, revealing the ugly temper beneath. "You think this is funny?" she shrieked, her voice cracking. "You think you can mock me?"

Before I could respond, she lunged. Her hand, adorned with glittering rings, shot out, aiming for my face. It was a wild, uncoordinated attack, fueled by blind rage rather than any semblance of skill.

My mind, usually consumed with lines of code and complex algorithms, instantly switched. Years of self-defense classes, a quiet hobby I pursued in my limited free time, kicked in. Isa' s movements were clumsy, her balance off. She was all show, no substance.

My hand shot up, catching her wrist with surprising speed and strength. I twisted, not brutally, but enough to disrupt her balance completely. A sharp, focused pressure on a nerve point, and Isa' s eyes widened in shock and pain. She cried out, a high-pitched yelp, her body twisting awkwardly as she lost her footing.

With a fluid motion, I guided her momentum, sending her stumbling forward, then down. She landed hard on her knees, the impact jarring through the flimsy fabric of her expensive designer clothes. A gasp escaped her lips, quickly followed by a wail of genuine pain.

The crowd gasped. A collective intake of breath that filled the suddenly silent store.

"Oh my god!" someone whispered. "She actually hit her!"

"You' re going to regret that, honey," another customer muttered, her voice laced with fear. "The Steeles will ruin you! No one gets away with touching Isa Jordan."

I ignored them. My gaze was fixed on Isa, who was now clutching her knee, tears streaming down her face, her carefully constructed image in tatters.

My attention shifted to the sales associate, who stood frozen, wide-eyed and trembling. "Are you going to complete my purchase now?" I asked, my voice calm, almost detached.

He stammered, tripping over his words. "Y-yes, ma' am! Immediately! Anything you need!" He scrambled to the register, his fingers fumbling with the keys. The platinum card was swiped, the membership activated, the two smartwatches packaged with frantic efficiency.

I took the small shopping bag, feeling the weight of the devices within. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. "Thank you," I said, my tone polite but firm. I turned to leave, the stares of the onlookers feeling like a physical weight on my shoulders.

As I took my first step, a hand shot out, grabbing my arm. It was Isa, somehow rallying despite her pain, her face streaked with tears and fury. "You' re not going anywhere!" she screamed, her grip surprisingly strong. "You think you can just do that and walk away?"

I looked down at her hand, then slowly back up to her face. My eyes, I knew, were cold. "Let go," I said, each word distinct and deliberate.

She didn' t. Her grip tightened, fueled by a mad desperation. "Not until Chadwick gets here! He' ll make you pay! You' ll regret this, I swear to God!"

My gaze dropped to my hand, then back to her face. My eyes narrowed, a silent warning passing between us. A fresh wave of fear, raw and visceral, flickered in her eyes. It was a primal instinct, a recognition of something dangerous in my gaze. Her hand trembled, then slowly, reluctantly, released my arm.

I didn't say another word. I simply turned and walked away, the soft hum of the automatic doors opening and closing behind me, leaving the chaos in my wake. As I stepped out into the bright mall corridor, a sleek, black limousine with tinted windows pulled up to the curb, its engine purring almost silently. The driver, a muscular man in a dark suit, stepped out and opened the rear door.

My steps faltered. Of course. Just when I thought I was free.