Chapter 1: The Night It All Began
“Don’t touch me!” she screamed, her voice breaking.
The man backhanded her. Her head snapped to the side, cheek stinging. Tears blurred her vision, but through them, she saw Vincent closing in — closer, closer.
Vincent’s rage detonated. He floored the gas, the engine roaring like a beast unleashed. He rammed the SUV with brutal precision, sending it careening toward the guardrail. Metal screamed as sparks erupted, tires squealing.
The vehicle swerved violently, scraping against the barrier. Jennifer was thrown against the window, breath stolen from her lungs.
The driver fought to recover, snarling curses. But Vincent was relentless. Another hit. Another. The SUV bucked under the assault.
And then — the sound. Tires bursting. The SUV skidded, spun, screeched.
“Brace!” Carlos shouted.
Vincent’s eyes were fixed, unblinking, locked on Jennifer through the chaos.
The SUV slammed into a light pole with a bone-shaking crash. Glass shattered. Metal crumpled. The world filled with smoke and the acrid stink of gasoline.
Jennifer’s ears rang. Her vision blurred. The world tilted sideways. The passenger groaned, pinned against the dashboard, blood pouring from a gash in his forehead. The driver fumbled for his gun, hand slick with blood.
Jennifer’s heart stopped when she saw him lift the weapon.
And then Vincent was there.
The driver barely turned before the door was ripped open. Vincent’s hand closed around his throat, dragging him out like an empty bag. The man gasped, kicked, choked. Vincent’s face was carved from stone, his eyes bottomless.
“You touched her,” Vincent growled, his voice low, lethal.
With a single twist, a sickening crack filled the night. The man went limp, collapsing to the ground like undressed clothes.
Jennifer froze against the door. She had never seen anyone move like that, with such terrifying efficiency. This wasn’t the man who had handed her a rose in a candlelit garden. This was something else entirely — a shadow forged from violence.
Her saviour. Her monster. Who was this man?
A FEW WEEKS EARLIER
Lightning tore the sky in a blinding flash, thunder cracking like a thousand war drums. Beverly Hills lay cloaked in darkness, drenched in rain. Streets were deserted, mansions silent in sleep—except for one room.
The air inside reeked of alcohol and cigarettes. Muffled voices, sweaty bodies tangled in shadows. Skin against skin. For him, it was a pleasure. For her, it was prison.
Jennifer Lawrence lay beneath the weight of a man who grunted with animal hunger. His thrusts were not love, not desire—just raw lust, unfeeling and brutal. She shut her eyes, clinging to the covers as if they could shield her, whispering silently: It’ll be over soon. Just breathe. Wait it out.
The man growled and flipped her onto her back. He thrust into her with aggression, not love, not feel, but with the insatiable thirst of lust. She squealed in pain but neither moved nor tried to stop him. He leaned into her ears and whispered.
“I own you tonight and every other night.”
Her eyes teared up and she mumbled a faint sound. He took it for pleasure.
The man grunted one more time and collapsed, his body shaking violently in ecstasy. He rolled over and immediately dozed off.
Hot tears blurred the ceiling above. Her body shook, fragile from what he'd taken. She sniffed.
When she finally found her balance, she straightened up and staggered to the only chair in the room where she had dropped her purse. She fidgeted with it, her hands trembling, her breath ragged. She pulled out a cigarette and frantically searched for the lighter.
Three sparks, a long red glow and then a puff of smoke. She sank to the cold floor and savored the smell of tobacco. Her eyes had dried up immediately. They had gotten soaked. Her makeup was a mess just like her hair, rumpled, cut and dry. She grabbed it with a fistful and pulled. The tip of the cigarette glowed red when she drew a long puff.
She looked at the window. The cold had them fogged up, and she could see the little lines of condensation trickle down.
She started to sob quietly, burying her head. Why? Then she rose almost immediately.
The room was suffocating. Shadows clung to the walls like chains, the silence pressing against her ears. She grabbed her purse, stuffed with wrinkled bills that mocked her, and forced herself toward the door.
Outside, the storm hit her face with icy rain. She didn’t flinch. If anything, it was a relief—a reminder that she was still alive. Her boots splashed through puddles as she walked along the curb under rumbling skies.
The sky lit up in a flash and her eyes could see a figure ahead. Alarmed, she slowed. The figure was leaning against what looked like a car's frame.
She drew closer, keeping to her own side of the street. It was a man. He stood at least 6 feet tall. He leaned against the sleek frame of his car, his suit drenched, his posture defeated. Not powerful. Not proud. Just…tired as though carrying a weight only he knew.
He looked up abruptly, as like he had sensed her presence. He said no words, his eyes never blinked, not for once. They just stared at her. She stopped. Was he the client she was supposed to meet that night? She was reluctant. Why wasn't he moving? They all moved, they all couldn't wait to get their hands on her. His silence was dreadful.
Then he moved, his arms dropped sideways, hanging loosely, his shoulders dropped as well.
“You shouldn't be out here tonight,” his voice flat yet heavy with concern and not desire.
He stepped forward.
Rain rolled down his face.
For a moment, Jennifer forgot how to breathe.
Because she knew exactly who he was.
And men like Vincent Moretti never crossed paths with women like her, twice.
