Chapter 17 Nyah
NYAH
The door closed behind Caleb, and I stood there staring at the floor, the echo of his words settling into the quiet.
I had no proof. No evidence. Just fear and assumptions shaped by past disappointments that had taught me to prepare for the worst before I ever allowed myself to hope for better.
I might have misjudged Caleb. And worse—I might have misjudged his intentions entirely.
I hadn’t trusted him. No matter how cooperative he had suddenly become, no matter how capable or composed he appeared, a part of me had refused to believe it wasn’t calculated.
Men like him didn’t change overnight. They didn’t soften without a reason.
And I had learned, painfully and repeatedly, to watch for the moment when the ground shifted beneath me—when confidence turned into control, when charm revealed itself as strategy.
That unease had driven me downstairs earlier, searching for space to think.
I had walked past the staff cafeteria, tuning out the clatter of cutlery and low hum of conversation, and headed for the bathroom.
I needed silence. I needed a place where no one demanded clarity from me, where I didn’t have to analyze tone or intention or hidden meaning.
The moment I had pushed the bathroom door open, I knew something was wrong.
A tall white man stood near the sinks, his presence dominating the small room. A jagged scar cut across his cheek, pulling one side of his mouth into a permanently cruel twist. In his hand was a knife, the blade catching the harsh fluorescent light.
In front of him stood Linda—one of our housekeepers—her back pressed against the tiled wall, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed uncontrollably.
My heart slammed hard against my ribs. When his attention snapped to me, his grip tightened around the knife, and his eyes narrowed. “Step back,” he yelled. “I came here for money, and I’m not leaving until I get it.” He slashed the air in a zigzag motion.
The threat was real and immediate. Lethal. I forced myself to stay calm even as adrenaline surged through me. Panic would get Linda killed. Panic would get me killed.
I kept my voice measured and my movements deliberate as I looked at her. “What’s going on?” I asked.
Through broken sobs, she managed, “He’s my ex-husband. I filed a restraining order against him for domestic violence. Now he wants money… for drugs.”
Rage burned through me, hot and precise, cutting through the fear. I turned back to him. “How much do you want?” I asked evenly. “What will it take for you to leave her alone?”
“I want five hundred dollars. Now,” he said, his mouth twisting into a sadistic smile. Then his eyes darkened. “But what makes you think I’ll leave her alone?”
That answer sealed it. This man didn’t deserve negotiation.
He didn’t deserve appeasement. He needed to be stopped.
Luckily for me, I was wearing heels. I waited.
I watched the way his weight leaned forward, the way his attention flickered between Linda and me, the slight lag in his reaction time.
Then I turned to her and said calmly, “I want you to go ask Amy for the money so you can give it to—”
“She’s not going any—” he snapped.
That was the opening. In one fluid burst of motion, I kicked the knife out of his hand, drove my heel down hard into his right foot, slammed my elbow into his nose, and brought my knee up into his groin. Five seconds. Maybe less.
“Call 911 and get security down here—now!” I shouted as adrenaline surged through me.
He barely had time to register what had happened before I punched him square in the face and kicked him in the stomach.
Already bent double, he stumbled backward and hit his head against the sink with a sickening crack.
Blood poured from his nose. I kicked his leg once more, just to be certain he was out cold.
Only then did I look down.
Blood stained my shirt.
He had managed to slash my stomach in the chaos. It was going to leave a scar.
The cut wasn’t deep, but it was bleeding freely, warmth spreading across my skin in contrast to the chill settling into my limbs.
After the police arrived, after I pressed charges, answered questions, and reassured Linda again and again that she was safe, I returned to my office. The adrenaline had drained away by then, leaving me shaky and hollow.
As I threw away the blood-soaked bandages, my hands began to tremble. I gripped the edge of my desk and focused on slowing my breathing. The weight of what had happened settled into my chest. My heart raced, my fingers tingled, and memories surfaced uninvited.
This hadn’t been the first time I’d stepped into danger for someone else.
I thought back to the diner.
Lucija—pretty, blonde, Croatian—had stormed into the kitchen one afternoon, furious and shaken. Two male customers had been relentless, crude, crossing every boundary. When one of them pinched her as she served their food, she had screamed.
Don’t get involved. Keep your head down. Walk away. That’s what I told myself. Right up until I heard him say, “I think you’re pretty, and I know you liked it. Want me to do it again?”
I hadn’t thought twice.
I remembered walking to their table, my voice deceptively calm. “Is everything okay here, boys?”
They had looked me up and down like I was nothing but flesh and laughed.
“So you saw what happened?” one of them sneered, making a pinching motion. “Want some too?”
I had twisted his hand back, arched it toward his shoulder blade, and smashed his head down onto the table. “Would I like some of what, Mr. Fingers?” I’d asked through clenched teeth. “If I were you, I’d use them the way you’re supposed to—holding a fork and spoon and eating your damn lunch.”
He had screamed for the manager. Everyone had stared, and I had fled to the bathroom.
Remembering it now, a small, satisfied smile curved my lips.
I had been proud of myself then.
I was proud of myself now.
And yet, standing alone in my office, replaying Caleb’s words and the look in his eyes when he’d spoken them, I couldn’t ignore the truth settling uncomfortably into place.
Maybe my instincts had protected me for a long time. But maybe—just this once—they had also been wrong.
And the realization that I might have misjudged Caleb remained with me, heavy and unresolved, long after the room had gone quiet.