Helen's POV
The music didn't stop after the gunshot. That was the strangest part and the most surreal detail of a world tilting on its axis. The bass kept pounding, a rhythmic thud that vibrated through the floor like the pulse of a dying beast.
Sloane's scream was a sharp, piercing blade that sliced through the roar of the crowd. She moved on instinct, her hands catching my shoulders and dragging me down behind the heavy leather booth just as a second wave of glass rained onto the table. My heart slammed so hard against my ribs I thought the bone might actually crack under the pressure.
I reached up, my fingers trembling as I touched the wall behind me. The velvet was torn. I felt warm, crumbled plaster, a neat, smoking hole inches from where my head had been seconds before. If I hadn't leaned forward to set down my glass, the bullet would have found its home in my temple.
The air smelled of gunpowder and ozone. I curled my hands into fists, digging my nails into my palms to stop the shaking. The seconds stretched thin as wire, vibrating with the threat of a follow-up, and then a shadow fell over us. It was Derick, He didn't run; he moved. He landed beside me in a low crouch, his body a coiled spring of lethal intent. He wasn't a bartender anymore. He wasn't the man who served me wrong orders. He was something else entirely, something dangerous that I didn't recognize but was suddenly, desperately grateful for. His eyes scanned the room in sharp, predatory sweeps, his jaw set in a hard, unforgiving line.
"Can you move?" he asked. His voice cut through the chaos, low and steady. It was the voice of a man who had heard gunshots before many of them.
I nodded once, my throat too tight to speak.
He grabbed my hand. It wasn't the gentle touch from earlier; it was firm, certain, and unbreakable. He pulled me up, tucking me close to his side so that I could feel the heat radiating off his chest. His palm settled at the small of my back, guiding and shielding me as we moved. I didn't even realize I was walking; I was simply following the gravity of his strength.
Sloane stumbled after us, clutching her purse to her chest as if it were a shield. Derick didn't head for the main exit where the crowd was bottlenecking in a screaming mass. He turned sharply, his shoulder hitting a staff-only door hidden behind a velvet curtain.
The noise of the club muffled instantly. It was replaced by the low hum of industrial pipes and the smell of damp concrete. We were in a service corridor—narrow, dim, and illuminated by a single, flickering bulb that cast long, dancing shadows on the walls.
My heels clicked too loudly on the concrete. My breathing sounded like a gale in the silence. Derick moved like a shadow, checking every corner with clinical efficiency before he let us pass.
"Who..." Sloane started, her voice cracking.
Derick lifted one finger to his lips without looking back.
We reached a heavy metal door at the far end of the passage. He shoved it open, and the cold, midnight air slapped my face. We stepped into an alleyway slick with rain, the city's neon reflecting in the oily puddles. In the distance, sirens wailed, a rising chorus of authority that felt miles away.
Only then did he release my hand. I swayed slightly, the sudden lack of his touch making the world tilt.
Derick turned toward me, the alley's dim light catching the sharp planes of his face. His hand reached out, stopping just short of my wrist, his thumb hovering over the bruise the drunk man had left earlier.
"You're not hit," he said. It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact, as if he had already scanned every inch of me for blood.
I swallowed hard, trying to find my voice.
"No."
Sloane stood beside me, her mascara smudged into dark hollows under her eyes. "Helen… what the hell just happened? Who was shooting at us?"
I didn't answer. My eyes were fixed on Derick, whose gaze had already shifted. He wasn't looking at us anymore. He was staring at the street beyond the alley mouth. I followed his line of sight.
Across the road, a black car sat idling. No headlights. No license plate visible in the gloom. Just a silhouette of cold metal in the rain, watching us. My stomach dropped.
"Stay behind me," Derick said. He stepped forward, his hand disappearing beneath the hem of his black suit jacket. When it reappeared, moonlight glinted off the matte finish of a handgun.
Sloane sucked in a sharp, audible breath. My heart stopped. Who is this guy?
The black car's headlights suddenly flared to life.. blinding. Then, the engine roared, and the car sped forward, tires screeching as it aimed straight for us.
Derick pushed me back with one arm, his body becoming a human shield. He raised the gun with the other, his arm steady as a rock, his eye tracking the target with terrifying precision.
The first shot cracked through the night, a thunderclap in the narrow alley.
I flinched, my hands flying to my ears. Glass exploded across the car's windshield. The vehicle swerved violently, tires screeching on the wet asphalt as it lost control, crashing into a heavy industrial dumpster at the alley's entrance. Metal screamed against metal. Sparks flew, dying instantly in the air.
Silence followed, Derick didn't move. He didn't lower the gun. He kept it trained on the wreckage until the driver's door creaked open. A figure stumbled out, clutching a shoulder where blood was already seeping through the fabric of a long, expensive coat.
She lifted her head, her dark hair plastered to her face by the rain. Isabella Sullivan. My former best friend. The woman who had slept with my boyfriend and leaked my secrets. She looked wild, desperate, and utterly broken.
Sloane whispered behind me, "Isabella? What is she doing here?"
Isabella's eyes met mine across the rain-slicked distance. There was no apology in them, she opened her mouth, her voice a ragged edge.
"Helen—"
Derick stepped forward, his boots crunching on broken glass. "Don't come any closer."
Isabella froze, the sirens growing louder now, reflecting red and blue off the brick walls. She looked at Derick, then back at me, a bitter, breathless laugh escaping her lips.
"You really don't know, do you?" she choked out. "You think tonight was random? You think that shot in the club was an accident?"
My chest tightened, the air suddenly too thin to breathe. "What are you talking about, Isabella?"
"You're already known to him, Helen," she said, the word sounding like a curse. "He doesn't leave loose ends."
Known? Who is trying to kill me?. The word settled over me like a burial shroud. Before I could scream at her for more answers, another car appeared at the far end of the street—dark, fast, and silent.
Derick swore under his breath, a low, jagged sound. He grabbed my wrist, pulling me backward into the deepening shadows of the alley.
"Move. Now."
"But Isabella—"
"Move, Helen!"
My lungs burned with the cold air as we ran, my silk dress clinging to my skin like a second, cold skin. Sloane struggled to keep up, her heels clicking frantically, but Derick didn't slow down. He knew the geography of the shadows better than I knew my own boardrooms.
We reached a locked steel door in the back of a warehouse. He slammed his shoulder into it once, twice—on the third strike, the lock gave way with a crack of splintering wood. We stumbled inside, and the darkness of the warehouse swallowed us whole.
Derick closed the door, bracing his heavy frame against it, listening to the world outside. For a long time, there was only the sound of our ragged, desperate breathing.
Slowly, he turned toward me. In the dim, red glow of a single emergency bulb, his eyes caught mine. They were hard, intense, and alive with a dangerous, electric energy that made the air between us hum.
"You're not safe for now," he said. It was a promise of the war to come.
I heard the heavy thud of car doors slamming and unknown people shouting outside. They were close.
Derick stepped closer to me, his body heat pressing into mine, shielding me from the door and the monsters behind it. My back met the cold, corrugated metal of the wall, and his hand braced beside my head, pinning me in place.
My breath caught. It wasn't from the fear of the men outside. It was from him. The man who had just shot a car and saved my life without breaking a sweat.
His voice dropped, a rough, gravelly rasp against my ear that sent a shiver down my spine.
"Whatever happens next… You listen to me.
Do you understand?" His eyes locked onto mine, demanding total surrender. And in that moment, as the sirens wailed and the world hunted for us, I knew.