Ethan, Michael, and the driver were downstairs grabbing lunch.
"Your place really that poorly soundproofed?" the driver asked.
"No money," Ethan shrugged.
"Mr. Channing could pay to fix it," the driver suggested.
"Wouldn't help," Michael said. "You heard that just now. That wasn't a bed. That was the bed collapsing."
"Bull. Victor's room doesn't even have a bed frame. Just a mattress on the floor."
"So what was it?"
"Probably the desk."
"Didn't know Caroline had that kind of depth."
"Hey, guys, I'm right here. And I'm on the Channing payroll."
"We're not Channings."
"Victor's basically their son-in-law now."
"Caroline's molded to Victor's shape at this point. You that dedicated? Wanna go upstairs and ask?"
"You guys are disgusting."
"Thanks for the compliment."
"Won't Victor get mad you're talking about his girl like that? You're just his buddies!"
Ethan smirked. "You know why the walls are paper-thin?"
"Why?"
"'Cause they're up on the third-floor training center. No need for soundproofing up there."
"What's that got to do with anything?"
Ethan clapped the driver on the shoulder. "Because Victor doesn't treat Caroline like a girlfriend."
The driver looked lost.
Michael started clearing the table. "Our bedrooms are on the sixth floor. Soundproofed so good you could fire a gun and not hear it."
······
The next three days felt like a fever dream.
Caroline Channing stayed in Victor's apartment. They barely left.
When they were together, it flipped between wild, body-exploring passion and long, ice-cold strategy sessions—like someone flipping a switch.
Victor was stunned to find that beneath her icy shell, Caroline had a razor-sharp mind and a weirdly dark sense of humor. But none of it made him feel anything for her.
She, on the other hand, was drawn to Victor's raw honesty and smarts. He wasn't the dumb boxer she'd expected.
On the morning of the third day, Victor woke up to an empty bed.
On the nightstand: a note and a business card.
Company docs will arrive within a week. Contact this guy—he'll handle all legal. Stay in touch. —C
No goodbye. No mushy stuff.
Classic Channing move.
Victor couldn't tell if he was disappointed or impressed by how clean she kept it.
He had Blair reach out to the lawyer. Papers showed up fast.
Five million from the Channing Group got wired into the newly formed Horizon Farms.
Then, on expert advice, Victor made a string of "investment decisions."
The Oklahoma sun scorched the earth. As far as the eye could see: endless rust-red dirt and dead grass.
Victor stood on the 15,000 acres he'd just dropped a fortune on. Hot wind whipped dust across his face—his jawline sharper, features harder than ever.
Locals called this place "where even the birds won't take a dump." Barren. Forgotten. A legit money pit.
That's why the company sold it cheap after bleeding cash.
But Victor's eyes burned with something obsessive.
He didn't see wasteland. He saw cover. A perfect hideout, far from Wall Street's prying eyes. A future goldmine with cheap water and drought-resistant crops no one saw coming.
Caroline Channing's "investment" was already vanishing into the books—written off as operating costs and investment losses.
Five million bucks, gone like smoke. All for this silent desert and the faint, cold smirk on Victor's lips.
Frankie was right beside him. A hundred security contractors—half men, half women. Every one of them armed and trained.
"Tulsa ain't exactly paradise," Victor said, "but weed's legal here. Plant it. Security team—make this business happen."
Frankie nodded. "No problem. A hundred guns, thirty trucks, two belt-feds. Ain't a gang in Tulsa that can touch us."
·······
Back on the East Coast, New York exploded without warning.
The Brooklyn Eagle dropped a front-page bomb so vicious it shredded high society's fake calm:
"CAROLINE CHANNING HAS A BOYFRIEND—CHICAGO TYPEWRITER GUNS DOWN WALL STREET PRINCESS!"
The subheadline twisted the knife.
The photo? Victor carrying Caroline up the apartment stairs—intimate angle, crystal clear. No way an outsider took that.
Three legs visible. Yeah, that kind of photo.
The fallout was instant.
Caroline Channing—Wall Street's golden girl, known for grace, brains, and untouchable pedigree—went from finance darling to tabloid feast overnight.
Her apartment, her office, her favorite club—swarmed by reporters like locusts.
Cameras flashed in her face. Questions hit like shrapnel:
"Miss Channing, is this true? What's your relationship with the… 'Chicago Typewriter'?"
"Are you secretly dating a pro boxer?"
"Sources say he's huge and crude. Does this mean you're rejecting your family's values?"
"Is Victor your way of rebelling against the Channings?"
"Wall Street princess falls for cage beast—is it love or a PR stunt?"
"Can you even handle him?"
Every question slapped her pride raw.
"Wall Street Princess" next to "Chicago Typewriter" (code for a violent, low-class slugger) didn't spark romance in her world. It sparked horror, mockery, and disgust.
Her phone blew up. Friends, partners—fake concern and real judgment nearly broke her.
She felt like a luxury handbag ripped open in public. Her image, her dignity—shredded under that photo and that vicious headline.
Their plan was supposed to stay in a tiny circle.
Meanwhile, back in Chicago's South Side, Apartment 2312, the vibe was totally different.
Victor's name was blowing up—in a whole other way.
Michael and Ethan waved the newspaper, howling at the shot of Victor's ripped back carrying Caroline, headline screaming.
"Damn, Michael, your sneaky photo skills are top-tier!"
Ethan punched Victor's shoulder—now so thick it hurt his hand. "Solid work, man. You two breaking up over this?"
"Five mil's still in the account. Martin's gotta deal with his mess first."
"Think Caroline's cool with it?"
"They're dreaming if they think I can't touch Martin. I just need him to want me in the game. Blair said blow it up."
"Blair's a savage. That's his classmate."
"When Blair was drowning on Wall Street, Martin and Caroline didn't throw him a rope."
Victor had just finished a brutal anti-strike drill. Bruised to hell, sweating buckets.
The rubber batons left deep burns in his bones. That jaw shot still made chewing hurt.
His body was reshaping under insane punishment—ribs like armor, jaw, cheekbones, brow all thicker. His head looked almost mutated—round, brutal, primal.
He grunted at their teasing. Didn't care.
Reputation?
He didn't want tabloid fame. But he knew heat could be a weapon. Or a shield.
Then his private phone rang. Screen: Caroline Channing.
He signaled Michael and Ethan to shut up. Answered.
No hello. Just Caroline—voice ice-cold, shaking with rage: "Victor! You did this. It was you."
He walked to the window, stared at Chicago's gray sky. Voice flat, almost cruel: "Did what, Caroline? I'm still replaying the good parts."
"Bullshit! That article! The Brooklyn Eagle! That damn photo! Only you or someone close to you could've taken it! Why?! We had a deal!"
Her voice cracked—betrayal sharp as glass.
Victor let her scream. Enjoyed it, almost.
Then, voice low and hard from all the rubber-bullet training: "The deal said keep the business quiet. Didn't say shit about us pretending to be a couple. The deal hinges on Martin staying 'friendly.' His silence makes me nervous. So I made the truth public. Added insurance."
"Insurance?!"
Her scream went shrill with disbelief. "You call this insurance?! You ruined me! I'm a joke in New York! My family's humiliated! My career could tank! You shameless, filthy—"
A string of upper-crust curses poured out—polished, vicious, enough to make a sailor blush.
Victor just listened. Blank face. Even turned to Michael and Ethan: "Hear that? Even her swearing's classy."
They cracked up.
When she finally paused, gasping, he cut in—each word cold iron: "Your reputation? Your shame? Miss Channing, when your dad used that five mil to tie you to me, you should've seen the risk coming.
This ain't a polite Wall Street merger. You paid. I deliver—including handling problems. Problem might be here. I added a safety margin. As for reputation?"
He paused, a faint smirk in his voice: "I'm a pro boxer. Partner to a congressman. South Side Chicago's rep. You? Your dad's two billion buy thirty-five thousand votes for senators?"
"You bastard! You think you can blackmail me? You have no idea who you're messing with!"
Caroline was shaking. Powerless.
She tried to control this man with money and rules.
But he didn't play by her rules.
He was a bull in a shop—crashing, fearless, untamed.