Chapter 20 Daisy #2
The door creaked. Perfume hit before I saw her. Luisa. Her smile was gone, her eyes cut to shards. She stepped beside me at the mirror as if I didn’t exist.
“Daisy, right? You’re here with Damian? His new employee?”
“We’re together,” I said. The words slipped out before I could stop them. A mistake. The second they left, regret slammed me. We weren’t really a couple, not in the way that mattered.
“In your dreams,” she smiled, venom under the sugar.
The sting landed harder than I wanted to admit. My chest tightened, but I forced composure.
“I don’t care what you believe,” I said coolly, stepping to leave.
She blocked me, quick and deliberate. “He fucked me in his office a few days ago,” she whispered. “And he wants to again.”
My eyes sharpened. “I don’t believe you.”
Luisa laughed softly, shaking her head like I was a child lost in fairytales. “Check for yourself. Left drawer. Black foil. I made him use a condom. He wanted it bare.”
The words slid under my skin like ice. “You’re lying.” My throat tightened, breath strangled.
“Naive,” she breathed, so close I could taste her perfume. “Men like Damian need real women, not lapdogs who think one lucky night makes them special.”
Something cracked in me. Tears burned, but I refused to let them fall. Her smile widened, satisfied.
“He’ll use you. Just like all the others.”
Pain seared my palms where my nails dug deep. “Get out of my way,” I hissed, shoving past her.
Outside, the air felt suffocating. Each breath dragged me deeper into the spiral. What if she was right? What if I was nothing but a toy he’d throw away?
By the time I reached the lounge, Ference was waiting, steady as stone.
“Mr. Miller is in his office,” he said.
I nodded mutely and drifted to the bar, Ference shadowing me.
Damian would never belong only to me.
I would never be enough.
I would never fit his world.
Luisa’s poison coiled tighter. The pain was unbearable, raw.
I downed the drink in front of me, the burn tearing down my throat. It felt good. Real.
I ordered two more. Ference lingered, watching, concern etched in his silence.
The longer Damian stayed away, the more I drowned. I lifted the next glass with numb fingers, but before I could drink, a hand stopped me cold.
Ference’s grip closed over the glass, steady and unyielding.
“That’s enough, Miss Daisy.” His voice was low, calm, but iron-hard.
I stared at him through glassy eyes. “Let me,” I mumbled, pulling weakly against his hand. But Ference didn’t move.
With quiet patience, he pressed the glass back down, his eyes locked on mine. “Enough,” he repeated, laying a firm hand on my shoulder. “I won’t watch you destroy yourself. Not while I’m on duty.”
My fingers slackened around the glass, hesitating. His presence radiated authority, his resolve unshakable. Reluctantly, I let it go. The haze of alcohol lifted just enough for me to feel the weight of his gaze—and for the first time that night, I stopped.
“You have to stop.”
“Why? What does it matter?”
Ference sighed and pulled me to my feet. “Come on. I’ll get you out of here and to Mr. Miller’s home.”
I resisted for a moment, but I was too drunk to fight. When I tried to stand, dizziness crashed over me, and I stumbled into Ference’s arms. He caught me at the waist and steered me toward the limousine.
Outside, in front of the club, he reached for his phone. “I’ll inform Mr. Miller.”
“Don’t bother, Ference,” I called out. “He surely already has company.”
Moments later, the club doors burst open and Damian stormed out. His expression was cool and controlled, but I caught the flicker of concern in his eyes.
“What happened?” he asked sharply.
“Go fuck that Luisa, like you did a few days ago!” I shouted from inside the car.
Damian and Ference exchanged a look. Damian cursed, then slammed the car door shut. “Take her to my place. Ference, ride with her.”
Ference slid in beside me, silent, his concern evident. “I’m sorry, Miss Elfhorn, that you always lose yourself like this. I would give my life for Mr. Miller, but I am sorry for you.”
I stared at the floor of the limousine, my voice barely audible. “Thank you, Ference.” Tears spilled down my face. He shifted closer and handed me a tissue. I buried my face in my hands and wept. His arm settled around me, steady and protective—a quiet shield in the storm.
The ride to Damian’s apartment passed in silence, city lights flickering through the windows. Ference’s steadiness gave me a fragile sliver of comfort.
When we arrived, only a faint dizziness reminded me of the alcohol. Ference stayed close as we moved toward the elevators.
“Miss Daisy.”
The weight in his tone made me look up. “What is it?”
“Something’s not right,” he murmured, scanning the space. “The man from the lobby—and the attendant who usually sits here—they’re gone.”
I looked around. The building felt abandoned, unnervingly still.
“I’ll take you back to the car. I’ll go into Mr. Miller’s apartment first, alone.”
Ference gripped my wrist, gentle yet firm, and led me through the lobby with quick, decisive movements. But before we could reach the door, men leapt from behind the reception desk. They moved with brutal precision.
I was shoved hard to the floor. My head smacked the tiles, vision wavering. Panic surged through me. Ference reacted instantly, pivoting with the sharpness of a trained fighter. His fist cracked against one attacker, sending the man staggering.
Two more lunged. Ference dodged with fluid speed, years of training carved into every movement. He landed a kick in one man’s stomach, driving the air from him. Another tried to grab hold, but Ference dropped low, seized his arm, and slammed him onto the ground in one swift motion.
But there were too many. One pulled a weapon.
Ference’s hand went instinctively to his holster, but they were on him, crowding him in, cutting off his reach.
A baton struck across his back. A heavy man lunged, and another blow cracked against his skull.
Ference staggered, balance slipping. Before he could recover, pistols were raised, barrels leveled at both of us.
“If you make even a single move,” one hissed, pressing the gun forward, “I’ll shoot her in the head.”
Ference froze, breath ragged, fury burning in his eyes.
The elevator doors slid open with a metallic click. Thomas Mason stepped into the lobby.
“What a pleasure to see you again, my little one,” he said smoothly. “Bring her to the apartment.”
The men grabbed me and shoved me forward, guns fixed on us. Ference was forced in beside me, steel pressed to his skull.
Inside the apartment, Ference was thrown to the ground and beaten without mercy. I screamed, tried to reach him, but Mason shoved me down onto the couch. My shoulder slammed against the edge, pain shooting through me. His hand clamped down on my thigh, sliding higher with cold possession.
A raw, animal sound tore from Ference’s throat. Despite the blows, despite the blood streaking his face, he forced himself to his knees. “Let her go, you piece of shit!” he snarled.
Mason only laughed—low, arrogant, vile—pinning me with one hand while drawing his gun with the other. He aimed at Ference like he was nothing. Then, with a sudden twist, he leveled the barrel at me.
My heart lurched. His finger slid across the trigger. A small, mechanical click split the air. Not loud—louder than anything. Cold dread shot through me. I knew, in that second, I was going to die.
I froze, lungs locked tight.
Ference broke free, desperation blazing in his movements. I screamed, one single, ragged cry, as he hurled himself between Mason and me.
Everything happened at once—a crash, a gunshot, a dull thud.
Ference staggered back, his hands clutching his chest where blood already poured through his fingers.
His eyes locked on mine, full of pain, guilt, and something I knew would haunt me forever.
His mouth opened as if to speak, but only a hoarse rattle slipped out.
“Miss… Daisy, I’m sorry,” he whispered, the words barely audible, before his legs buckled.
He took the bullet meant for me and still apologized.
Then sank to his knees. Mason sneered, cruel and contemptuous, and before Ference could rise one last time, a second shot thundered through the apartment.
His body twitched once, then toppled sideways, still forever.
Blood spread across the floor, crawling like dark fingers toward everything it touched. My gaze stuck on him. I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t breathe. The world tilted, merciless. Ference was dead—because of me.
Despair stabbed through my chest, sharp and unrelenting.
The impulse to run to him, to catch him, to hold him—even just to give him warmth in his last seconds—consumed me.
He had died for me, without asking for anything in return.
A scream burned inside, desperate to tell him thank you, or I’m sorry, or simply that he wasn’t alone. Not like this. Not because of me.
Mason shoved me back roughly, his grip trapping me where I stood.
My heart pounded against my ribs, wild and brutal, each beat a painful drum.
A faint whimper escaped my throat as my lungs fought for air, useless, failing.
His hand clamped on my arm and yanked me to my feet with brutal force.
All I felt was that deep, black hole yawning in my chest, widening—bottomless.
“Move, you little slut,” Mason snarled, dragging me past Ference’s lifeless body.
I stumbled helplessly, my limbs refusing to obey, while his iron grip gave me no escape.
He tore open the bathroom door and shoved me inside.
I hit the cold tile hard, stars bursting behind my eyes. The door slammed shut.