Chapter 33
LILA
B rian's hands press around my throat, his fingers digging into my skin like steel hooks. My vision blurs at the edges, panic rising like a tidal wave.
Not again. Not again.
My lungs scream for air as his face hovers inches from mine, eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction. "Isn't this what you want? Attention from powerful men?"
Fuck that.
In one desperate move, I slam my palm upward against his elbow joint, breaking his grip just enough to gasp a breath. Then I drive my knee up between his legs with every ounce of strength I can muster.
Direct hit.
Brian doubles over, his smug expression crumpling into shocked pain. I don't waste the opportunity. Spinning sideways, I slam my elbow into his face, exactly how the campus security instructor demonstrates in the self-defense workshop I drag Tessa to every semester.
"Fuck you, asshole!" I rasp, my throat burning.
Brian staggers but catches himself against the conference table. Blood trickles from his nose, staining his pristine white shirt.
"You stupid bitch," he snarls.
I scramble backward, desperate to put space between us. My heartbeat hammers in my ears as Brian recovers, his face twisting into something inhuman, that perfect MBA smile replaced by animal rage.
"We could have done this the easy way," he says, straightening his tie like we're still in some professional setting. Like he's not planning to do God knows what to me.
I edge toward the door, though I know it's locked. My hand grips the doorknob anyway—some stupid animal instinct to escape. Brian lunges forward, his designer shoes squeaking against the polished floor.
I pivot to dodge, but his foot hooks around my ankle.
My knees crack against the floor, pain shooting up my legs. My purse flies open, contents scattering—lipstick, wallet, tampons, pens—all the mundane items of my life spreading across the floor like evidence at a crime scene.
My fingers close around one of my pens—the good metal one Tessa gave me for my birthday. Black ink, silver body, surprisingly heavy. "A real journalist needs a real pen," she'd said.
I push myself up, the pen gripped tight in my palm, its tip protruding between my fingers like a makeshift knife. I back away, keeping my eyes locked on Brian. His chest heaves, nostrils flaring like some Wall Street bull ready to charge.
Brian wipes the blood from his nose with the back of his hand, smearing it across his perfectly chiseled jawline. His eyes—cold as January in New York—never leave mine as he tries to compose himself. I keep backing away, circling toward the windows instead of the useless door.
"I thought you liked a challenge," I say, gripping my pen tighter. "But now you just look all rumpled and pathetic."
His eye twitches. Yeah, you asshole, get mad. Angry people make mistakes.
"Look at you… expensive suit with blood on the collar. What are people going to say when they see you got your ass kicked?"
Part of me screams this is stupid. Don't poke the bear. But I'm done being the frightened girl from New Orleans. Done being the one who freezes.
"They might actually realize what kind of monster you are?" I force a mocking smile. "And they won't only talk about Yale, but also about Sarah Keller?"
The name hits him like another knee to the groin, but he reigns his emotions in with calculated practice.
Brian's expression shifts—his eyes going from animal rage to something cold and clinical. The transformation is more terrifying than his anger.
"You think you're the first to try putting up a fight?" His voice drops to a smooth, indifferent tone. "The Yale bitch wasn't a problem. Sarah Keller wasn't a problem." He straightens his bloody cuffs with methodical precision. "And neither you nor your stalker boyfriend will be a problem."
Stalker boyfriend?
Brian's smile widens, showing perfect teeth. "Oh, did you think you found yourself a good man?" He laughs, a hollow, empty sound. "Your precious Dane has been watching you . Set up surveillance equipment in the abandoned building across from your apartment."
My stomach drops. No. He's lying. He has to be.
"And inside your apartment too." Brian's eyes gleam with satisfaction as he sees his words hit their mark. "Cameras. Microphones. Watching you sleep. Watching you shower. Probably jerking off while you undress thinking you're alone."
The pen almost slips from my sweaty palm. A memory flashes—Dane closing the curtains that night he was in my apartment. No. That means nothing.
"You're full of shit," I spit, but my voice lacks conviction.
"Am I?" He shrugs. "The difference between Dane and me," Brian continues, taking a step closer, "is that I'm honest about what I am."
My mind spins, desperate for solid ground. Is this just manipulation? Or, God, could it be true?
Brian lunges forward, his six-foot-plus frame crashing into mine. His hands find my throat again, pinning me against the wall. My skull cracks against the smooth surface, stars exploding behind my eyes.
"You think you're so smart," he hisses, his face inches from mine.
I try to scream but his grip tightens, cutting off the sound before it escapes. My legs kick uselessly as panic drowns me. His body presses against mine, trapping me like an insect pinned to a board.
His free hand yanks at my silk blouse, untucking it from my skirt with savage efficiency. The fabric tears at the seam.
The sound of ripping cloth catapults me back to New Orleans. Something inside me shifts. The panic doesn't disappear, it crystallizes into something else. Something cold and clear and deadly calm.
I stop fighting. My body goes limp, my arms dropping to my sides.
Brian's eyes flash with triumph. He thinks he's won. He thinks I've surrendered. Men like him always believe silence means consent.
The pressure on my throat eases just slightly as he fumbles with my blouse buttons.
My lungs fill with precious oxygen. Each molecule feels like it's preparing me, fueling what comes next. I don't waste energy on fear or disgust. I'm just... waiting.
Brian misreads my stillness for submission, his lips twisting into that entitled smile I've seen on a hundred rich guys as a bartender who think their American Express Black Card means they own whatever they want.
His grip loosens further as he wrestles with my clothing. One hand slides from my throat to grip my shoulder.
And that's when I make my move.
This time, I won't be the victim.
This time, I know exactly what I'm capable of.
This time, I'm taking justice into my own hands.