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I didn’t blame them for not coming forward. The world wasn’t kind to those who dared speak up.

But that didn’t mean it was right.

I approached the table, my pulse pounding. With my gear and the bat in hand, I didn’t look as helpless as I often felt. I looked like someone who fought back.

I took a deep breath, swung the bat, andslammedit down on the camera. It broke apart with a terrible crack.

Unsatisfied, I moved on to the TV. I hit it again, and again, and again until the screen was so smashed, it was barely recognizable as a television. After that, I vented my frustration on the dishes, the bottles, the ceramic ornaments. Nothing was safe from my rage.

Yet the fire inside me remained, clawing, desperate for a way out. My heart ran wild. Sweat drenched my skin, and my muscles ached from the force of my blows.

But I kept swinging, taking perverse pleasure in the shower of glass and ceramic shards until finally,finally, there was nothing left for me to break. Only then did I stop.

The bat clattered to the floor. I placed my gloved hands on the table and bent over, my chest heaving. The goggles had fogged up, and beads of sweat rolled down the side of my face. My arms were so sore I struggled to lift them.

It wasn’t comfort; it was something even better.

Catharsis.

CHAPTER23

Vuk

“Sir, you can’t go in there. Sir!” The assistant scrambled after me, his shiny loafers squeaking against the marble floors.

I ignored him the way I ignored the other staff gawking at me as I stalked through Beaumont’s office.

I’d waited all weekend for this, and my patience had reached its limits.

After Ayana finished with my makeshift rage room on Friday, I’d driven her home and made sure she was safely inside her apartment before I formulated my plan.

It’d taken every ounce of restraint not to find Wentworth fucking Holt that same night and kill him. But there was something I needed to do first, and acting on impulse was never a good idea.

I stopped at the corner office and walked in without knocking.

Emmanuelle Beaumont didn’t appear surprised by my arrival. She must’ve gotten a warning call from the front desk.

“Vuk Markovic.” She waved off her assistant, her eyes glinting with amusement when I closed the door in the man’s face. “What a surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

I took the seat opposite hers and eyed her dispassionately.

She was, objectively, an attractive woman, but I’d dealt with enough snakes in my life to recognize one when I saw it.

Behind that polished veneer lay the cunning mind of a viper. She hadn’t risen to the top of her field by playing nice, and I would’ve admired her for it had her ruthlessness not affected Ayana.

I cut to the chase and slid a pre-written piece of paper across her desk. It contained two words:Wentworth Holt.

“What about him?” Neutral tone, neutral expression, but she was clued in to what happened. I sensed it in her placidness. That was the calm of someone who was trying too hard to pretend they didn’t know what I was talking about.

There was a ceramic cup full of basic ballpoint pens next to me. I bypassed those and plucked the five-hundred-dollar personalized Montblanc straight out of her hand.

Emmanuelle’s mouth tightened, but she was smart enough to stay quiet.

I wrote my answer in precise black strokes.

He assaulted Ayana after Friday’s photoshoot.

Writing it down brought my rage to a high simmer again. Only cowards attacked people who they didn’t think could fight back. Wentworth knew the power he wielded, and he’d used it to take liberties he had no right taking.