Lielit
His presence was as large as his body. It was claustrophobic in a way I’d never experienced before.
The man was cold as ice, danger seeping from every pore of his arrogant frame.
His eyes flicked between green and blue—both shades reflecting cruelty.
Dark brown hair was swept back high from his face, the sides neatly shaved and blended into the top.
The suit, the cufflinks, the Rolex all screamed obscenely wealthy cunt. If that wasn’t enough, it was the sheer entitlement—the audacity to interrupt my business lunch and finger his way through my damned meal.
“Prothero,” he snapped, taking a long sip of his scotch—or possibly bourbon.
Every single thing about this man made my insides revolt. Then his name cut through my anger.
Blaidd Prothero.
Sponsor of the British Business Awards.
He was far younger than I’d expected. He couldn’t be much older than me.
“Blaidd Prothero,” I repeated, watching his lips spread—but not wide enough to smile.
It was smug. Satisfied.
And that wouldn’t do.
“The man who didn’t bother presenting the award at the BBA,” I continued lightly. “Rather unprofessional, no?”
I fluttered my lashes innocently, even as I wondered when the dickhead would finally get to the point.
“You don’t know who you’re dealing with, Ms Tolera,” he said, his voice deep and low.
The calm was a lie. His mouth had tightened, and the glass beneath his fingers looked like it might crack.
“Nor do I wish to,” I replied, reaching for my purse.
I stood to leave. With a flick of his wrist, his bodyguard stepped into my path.
“Sit down,” he said. “You’re done when I say you’re done.”
I glanced past the man, but no one would meet my eyes. I raised a hand to catch a waiter’s attention.
He froze.
Then he turned his back on me and ran.
He didn’t walk. He didn’t jog.
The man ran through the restaurant.
Prothero tapped his fingers against the table. What should have been a light sound felt like the steady drum of a death knell.
“How is your father doing,” he drawled, “since he lost his job? Terrible business, that.”
My head snapped back toward him—and I sat.
Without hesitation, I lifted my half-empty glass of water and threw it straight into his face.
One guard’s hand clamped down on my shoulder while the other rushed forward with napkins. I leaned back and watched shock twist into fury. He wiped his forehead, his eyes, his cheeks, his jaw—slowly, methodically. When he was finished, he tossed the sodden napkin onto my plate.
I didn’t need confirmation.
He’d sent the card.
He’d fucked with my stock prices.
And he’d somehow gotten my father fired.
The only question was why.
And judging by the look in his eyes, that was exactly why he was here.
Instead of answering me, his glare snapped to his bodyguard.
“Get your fucking hand off her before I lob it off with a rusty axe,” he snarled, fine droplets of spit flying from his mouth.
I swallowed hard and clutched my purse to my belly.
What the actual fuck?
“Both of you—face away,” he snapped.
They obeyed instantly, turning like a pair of puppets.
God. He was a fucking psychopath. Or a sociopath. Whatever label fit—he was completely off his head.
“And you,” he said, pointing directly at me. “If you don’t want things to get worse for Her Glow—and your family—I suggest you learn how to obey me.”
Did he just—?
Obey?
This motherfucker.
“Mr Prothero,” I said evenly, easing my hand into my purse until my fingers wrapped around the cold metal of the atomiser, “you’re clearly used to dealing with a certain type of people.”
I met his stare, dragging my gaze over him slowly as the metal cap slid free beneath my thumb.
“My people have survived colonisation. Slavery. Ethnic cleansing. Chemical warfare. Famine.”
My voice didn’t shake. “You can do whatever the fuck you want—but let me be very clear. I will never fucking obey someone like you. Because we are survivors.”
For the first time since he’d sat down, his composure cracked.
His eyes bulged, cartoonish with shock.
That was all I needed.
I lifted the pepper spray and aimed straight for his face.
His roar was immediate—animal, furious—barking orders as his guards rushed toward him.
I was already moving.
I didn’t look back.
I ran.
Down the street, through the press of bodies, into the nearest Tube station—trembling, lungs burning, heart hammering against my ribs.
And then—slowly—something inside me steadied.
Not relief.
Resolve.
Whatever the hell had just happened…
I knew one thing for certain.
I had just made a very dangerous enemy.
The journey home passed in a blur. I texted Anji to say I wouldn’t be back today. It wasn’t until I was home—until I was in my father’s arms—that the dam finally burst.
He held me without a word until the tears ran dry, and then I told him everything.
My mum was still at work, but my grandparents gathered around me, steady and unyielding. They reminded me who I was.
I was a Tolera.
?
?
?
My dad began researching who Blaidd Prothero was while I split my time between my legal team and restructuring our logistics—new suppliers, alternative routes, contingency plans.
My lawyers worked to ensure I could sever existing contracts without fault and reviewed every new agreement I could secure. Nothing would be rushed. Nothing sloppy.
I still didn’t know why Blaidd Prothero had singled me out, but it no longer mattered.
The only thing that made me smile was the memory of my homemade pepper spray burning in his eyes.
That sound—his roar, thick with rage and pain—sustained me.
He tried to cage me, and I struck back.
It might not end that way again—I’d had the advantage of surprise this time.
He was a heartless monster dressed in civility.
That was nothing new.