Chapter 3 The Interruption 1/2
My lungs seized. The impact had knocked the breath out of me, but the sheer shock of hitting Rhys Vance—the man who existed only in my trauma archive—was worse. I had just launched myself, wine-stained and vibrating with violence, into the last safe space I had left.
His grip on my arms was firm and non\-negotiable. His dark eyes locked onto mine, searching frantically, urgently assessing the blood, the glass, and the screaming behind me. His voice was a raw, low sound, stripped of all artifice. "Ellie. Are you cut? What the hell happened in there?"
I could only choke out a single, desperate word, fighting the urge to lean into the terrifying stability of his muscles. "Move."
He didn't. He used the grip to gently steer me sideways, moving me out of the doorway but keeping his large body anchored there, blocking the exit and the view of the living room.
Behind him, the chaos continued. Britney was screaming, her voice vibrating with genuine terror. Alex was groaning, a wet, choking sound, demanding someone call the police.
Alex, still clutching his bloody face, finally registered the man blocking his exit.
"Who the hell are you?" Alex slurred, trying to push himself up on the couch. "Get out of my apartment! This is a private matter. And you—" he pointed a shaky, blood-stained finger at me—"you brought him here! You were cheating on me with this... this jock?"
The accusation was so low, so pathetic, that it cut through the adrenaline. Alex wasn't angry about the broken nose; he was jealous of a man he didn't recognize.
Rhys finally glanced over my shoulder, his jaw tightening into a sharp, unforgiving line as he took in the full scene. But his attention immediately snapped back to Alex, the disgust in his eyes searing.
"I am leaving your pathetic excuse for a home now," I announced, finding my voice. "And you are welcome to file a complaint about my poor aim."
"You're not going anywhere, you crazy bitch!" Alex shouted. "I'm calling the police and I'm telling them everything—the threats, the history, everything your psycho family tried to cover up. You think you’re so smart? You're going to jail!"
The word history was the trigger. Rhys’s control snapped. He released my arms, the loss of his touch startling, and stepped fully into the apartment. The shift in his demeanor was immediate and terrifying. This wasn't the polished F1 celebrity; this was the protector who had once moved with brutal, necessary speed.
"Stay here," Rhys commanded, his voice a chilling monotone directed solely at me. He crossed the carpet to Alex.
"You don't call the police," Rhys stated, standing over Alex. He didn't raise his voice, which only made the command sound heavier. "You will get up, you will tell your friend that you fell down the stairs, and you will call a private doctor. Do you understand?"
Alex scoffed, trying to inject bravado through the pain. "Or what? You going to race me? Who the hell are you to tell me—"
Rhys crouched down, close enough to Alex's ear that only the two of them could hear the next words. Alex's eyes, wide with pain moments before, suddenly filled with utter, gut-wrenching dread. Rhys didn't even have to touch him.
"I am Rhys Vance," Rhys's voice was a low snarl, the tone utterly dismissive of the fame the name carried. "And I know your name, Alex. I know where you work. And if one single word of the 'history' you just threatened to expose leaves this apartment, you will not have a career left to save. You will not have a credit card that works. You will not be able to get a latte at the coffee shop you order from every morning. Do you understand me now?"
Alex nodded miserably, choking down the fear.
Rhys stood, straightening his jacket. "Get up. Go."
He waited while Alex dragged himself and the blonde woman (whom Rhys referred to only as "your friend") to the door. They fled into the hallway, leaving the apartment silent.
The room was silent again. The silence was worse than the screaming. I still hadn't moved from the doorway, feeling the heavy, cold presence of Rhys Vance as he finally turned his attention back to me.
He walked slowly toward me, stepping carefully around the broken glass and the dark, wet stain. He stopped directly in front of me, forcing me to look up into his face.
And then he let his eyes drop.
It wasn't the rapid, clinical triage sweep from before. This was slow, deliberate inspection. His eyes moved over my body—the small, silver scar of my past trauma, the damp black lace that clung to my trembling frame. He took in the wild disarray of my hair, the wine on my skin, and the single remaining silk cushion I was desperately clutching.
I felt suddenly, overwhelmingly naked. The lace that had been my armor felt flimsy and pathetic under his gaze. I waited for the look of revulsion, the physical signifier of male disgust for the messy, complicated failure I was. He was supposed to be the arrogant playboy; he was supposed to be disgusted by the drama.
He thinks I'm repulsive, I thought, pulling the cushion tighter. He thinks I'm the hysterical freak my father thought I was.
But when his eyes finally met mine, there was no judgment. There was only a profound, familiar exhaustion.
He reached out, not to touch me, but to gently remove the cushion from my hands and drop it onto the clean part of the wall.
"What the hell happened, Ellie?" he repeated, his gaze boring into my eyes.
I tried to default to the dark humor he knew all too well. "He didn't like the vintage, so I changed the medium. Turns out the non-verbal critique is much faster than the written thesis."
He didn't flinch, didn't smile. He simply stared, the sheer weight of his decade-long concern pressing down on me.
"Stop it," he ordered, the word gentle but absolute. "Tell me what he did."
The dam broke. The insult, the humiliation, the memory of Alex calling me not human—it all fractured. My chin wobbled, and a hot, painful wave of tears flooded my vision. I didn't mean to, but I crumpled. I stepped forward, burying my face into the solid, expensive leather of his jacket.
Rhys stiffened immediately, his muscles going rigid beneath the fabric. This wasn't the protocol of our relationship. But he didn't push me away.
As I clung to him, sobbing out the humiliating details—the cheating, the threesome offer, the final, vicious insult—I felt a shudder run through his chest. He took a deep, rattling breath, then slowly, tentatively, brought his arms around me, holding me tight against his heart.
"He called me not human, Rhys," I choked out into his jacket. "He said I was too smart to be human."
I felt his breath hitch violently above my head. His voice was a low rumble, laced with a familiar, dangerous rage.
"Your brothers," Rhys promised, his arms tightening around me until the air left my lungs. "Are going to kill him."