Denise stepped inside, the door slamming behind him. His eyes bypassed her, bypassed the candlelit dining room, the set table, the dress she'd chosen….and fixed on the cutlery.
"You used the Hermes." His voice was a winter wind. "I told you that was for guests."
Ave stood frozen in the hallway, her rehearsed welcome evaporating. "We don't have guests."
"Exactly." He dropped his briefcase , making it hit the marble with a crack. "So you're either stupid, or you're pretending this is something it's not."
He shrugged off his overcoat and let the coat fall to the floor between them.
"Pick that up," he said, not looking at her, already walking toward the liquor cabinet. "And pour me a bourbon. You've had all evening to practice being useful."
The knot in her stomach, the one that lived there now, twisted into something hotter as her fingers curled.
"It's our anniversary."
He stopped pouring. The silence was brittle enough to shatter. He turned, glass in hand, and his smile was a thin, cruel line.
"Is it?" He took a slow sip. "And what, precisely, are we celebrating? Three years of my money? Three years of your very convincing performance as a woman with a soul?"
The words were a physical blow. She felt them in her ribs.
"Denise…"
"Don't." He set the glass down.
"I've had a hellish day. The Kingship deal is bleeding. I don't need your needy little performance on top of it. Clean this up." He gestured vaguely at the dining room. "And be quiet."
He moved to pass her, heading for his study but something snapped.
It wasn't in her mind but was rather in her spine.
Her hand shot out, not to hit him, but to grip his forearm to stop him.
He looked down at her hand, then up at her face, astonished. The anger in his eyes solidified into something darker, more dangerous.
"Remove your hand."
"No."
The word hung in the air, alien and absolute.
His reaction was instantaneous. He grabbed the wrist of the hand that held him, his fingers digging into the bones with brutal precision. It was the same grip he'd used a dozen times before…..in the car, in the kitchen, once in a darkened theater when she'd asked the wrong question.
Pain, bright and electric, shot up her arm.
But this time, her body reacted before she could.
Her other hand came up, not in a slap, but flat-fingered, driving toward his throat.
He jerked back, letting go of her wrist in shock. She stumbled, her balance off, and the side of her head struck the sharp corner of the hallway console.
She heard him laugh, a short, disbelieving one at that.
"Christ. Are you trying to fight me?"
She pushed herself up, one hand to her throbbing temple. Her fingers came away wet because she was bleeding.
He watched the blood trickle down her hairline, his disgust plain. "Look at you. Pathetic."
He reached for her again, this time to grab her hair, to drag her, to show her...
And her body moved.
It was a memory in the muscles.
She dropped her weight, twisted, and drove her elbow back into his plexus.
The air left his lungs in a pained whoosh. He staggered, crashing into the wall, a framed map shattering beside him.
For a second, they just stared at each other, panting in the ruined hallway. Him, bent over, winded and furious. Her, standing, bleeding, her hands in fists she didn't remember making.
His shock melted into pure, unadulterated rage. "You vicious little…."
He lunged at her ,she didn't think before she reacted.
It was a dance she didn't know she knew. A block redirect, a sharp and efficient strike to the side of his knee. Making him let out a cry.
He fell against the dining table, sending crystal and china shattering to the floor. He lay amid the wreckage of the anniversary dinner, lamb grease and red wine soaking into his tailored shirt, staring up at her with a new, terrifying emotion: fear and ...realization.
Ave stood over him, her breath coming in ragged gasps, blood dripping from her temple onto the floor. The world was silent except for the ringing in her ears and the ragged sound of his breathing.
"You…" he wheezed. "What are you trying to do?"
She looked at her hands. She looked at him, broken among the shards of the life he'd built for her.
"I don't know," she whispered.
She turned and walked away on legs that felt both weak and invincible. In the kitchen, she ran cold water over a towel and pressed it to her head. The reflection in the black window showed a stranger with fire in her eyes.
When she returned, he was gone. The study door was closed.
The coat still lay on the floor. She picked it up and felt the wool cold. Her fingers, moving of their own accord, found the inner pocket. They closed around something flat, rigd and cold.
She drew out the keycard.
Black and unmarked. It felt like a weapon in her hand.
She tilted it and the security light above the stove caught the faint, laser-etched text:
KINGSHIP HOLDINGS – SUB-LEVEL 3
AUTHORIZATION: BLACK
PROTOCOL: TERMINATION
Termination Protocol.