The Trash Ex Gets Put Down

The neon sign of the Obsidian Lounge flickered through the thin mist, casting long purple shadows across the cobblestone courtyard. It was past midnight, and the exclusive members-only club was winding down, leaving the private parking alley shrouded in quiet darkness.

Robin stepped out through the lounge’s heavy brass exit doors. She had spent the last two hours finalizing the private logistics takeover that would cut off Harold Sinclair’s remaining port licenses. She wore a tailored crimson silk blazer over dark trousers, her four-inch stilettos clicking rhythmously against the damp stones. Her long, dark hair swung with every step, and her porcelain skin caught the ambient neon glow.

She had only taken five steps toward her car when a figure lunged out from behind an ornamental hedge, blocking her path.

"Robin! Wait!"

Robin didn't jump. Her combat-honed reflexes simply tightened her stance, her hand slipping inside her coat toward the slim ceramic blade tucked into her inner pocket.

The man staggered under the dim streetlamp. It was Dane.

He was reeking of vintage scotch, his designer tie pulled loose and his expensive tailored jacket wrinkled at the shoulders. His right hand was wrapped in a thick white medical splint—a parting gift from Brandon's bodyguard at the gala. His handsome face was flushed red, his eyes bloodshot with a mix of alcohol and desperate entitlement.

"Dane," Robin said, her tone as dead and flat as a winter lake. "You have three seconds to get out of my way before I finish breaking the rest of your bones."

Dane didn't retreat. Instead, he took another clumsy step forward, a sleazy, patronizing grin spreading across his lips. He looked at Robin’s breathtaking figure, her crimson blazer hugging her waist, and swallowed hard.

"Still playing the ice queen, aren't you?" Dane slurred, running his uninjured left hand through his gelled hair. "Look, Robin... I know you're angry. I know seeing me with Nicole at the gala crushed you. You're putting on this whole tough-girl act to make me jealous."

Robin stared at him in utter disbelief. "Jealous? Of a cowardly dog who hid behind a woman’s skirt?"

"Come on, Robin, be realistic!" Dane raised his voice, stepping closer with breathtaking audacity. "You think you can survive in Capital City alone? You were an ex-con in the borderlands! You have no family name, no true backing. So you bought a nice dress and rented a fancy car to look rich—who are you trying to fool?"

He reached out, his uninjured hand trembling with greedy excitement as he tried to trace the collar of her silk blazer.

"I've been thinking about it all day," Dane whispered, his voice thick with shameless arrogance. "I have to marry Nicole. You know how it is—Harold promised me the Sinclair family’s primary real estate shares as her dowry. I need the money to secure my seat on my father’s board. But between you and me... Nicole is boring. She’s loud, she’s stupid, and she can't hold a candle to how gorgeous you've become."

Robin’s emerald green eyes narrowed to lethal slits. "What are you proposing, Dane?"

Dane chuckled, thinking he was finally winning her over.

"Be smart, Robin. Sign the papers, drop the grudge, and become my private woman," Dane said proudly, puffing out his chest. "I’ll rent you a luxury penthouse in the arts district. I’ll give you fifty thousand dollars a month in cash. You can stay in my bed whenever I visit, and nobody in high society has to know. You get wealth, you get a luxury life, and you get me. It's the best offer a damaged girl like you will ever get."

The quiet alley fell dead silent.

Robin didn't scream. She didn't look offended.

Instead, a slow, radiant, terrifying smile curled onto her red lips.

"A luxury penthouse?" she whispered softly.

"Exactly, baby—"

CRACK!

The sound was like a whip breaking the sound barrier.

Robin didn't use a closed fist. With lightning-fast borderlands combat speed, she whipped her right hand across in a savage, open-palm backhand. The explosive kinetic force connected squarely with Dane's jaw.

"AGH!"

Dane spun a full three-hundred-and-sixty degrees on his heels, his mouth spraying blood and spit into the night air. The momentum ripped his feet clean off the cobblestones, sending him flying backward through the air until he crashed violently through a thick row of manicured thorn bushes.

Branches snapped, thorns shredded his thousand-dollar tuxedo, and Dane landed face-first in the muddy soil with a sickening groan.

"You worthless piece of garbage," Robin said calmly, taking a silk handkerchief from her pocket and wiping her knuckles with absolute elegance. "You weren't even fit to clean my boots five years ago. What makes you think you're fit to breathe my air today?"

"You... you crazy bitch!" Dane choked out, spitting a mouthful of blood and a broken tooth onto the gravel.

Blind with drunken rage and utter humiliation, Dane scrambled up from the bushes. Thorns clung to his hair and his face was smeared with dirt and blood. He raised his heavy brass-buckled belt in his uninjured left hand, lunging forward with a wild, murderous roar.

"I’ll kill you! I’ll beat you until you can't walk—!"

Before Dane could take two steps, the quiet alley was suddenly blinded by the roar of twin high-beam headlights.

A midnight-black, armored Maybach tore around the corner, its tires screeching against the wet cobblestones before braking inches away from Dane’s knees, cutting him off like a massive steel wall.

The rear door clicked open.

A towering shadow stepped out into the misty drizzle.

The air temperature in the alley plummeted instantly. Brandon Blackwood emerged, his imposing, broad-shouldered frame draped in a dark wool overcoat that made him look like the grim reaper itself. His tie was undone, his sleeves rolled up, and his chiseled face was set in lines of pure, terrifying fury.

His dark eyes were pitch-black—radiating an aura of absolute murder so suffocating that Dane froze mid-swing, all the alcohol evaporating from his veins in half a second.

"M-Mr. Blackwood...?" Dane stammered, his knees shaking uncontrollably.

Brandon didn't speak.

He moved with terrifying, predatory speed. Before Dane could drop his belt or scramble backward, Brandon’s massive hand shot out like an iron vice.

He seized Dane by the front of his torn shirt and tuxedo collar, wrenching him upward with effortless, savage brute strength.

With a single jerk of his arm, Brandon lifted Dane completely off the ground, dangling the trembling man two feet in the air against the brick wall.

"Guh—kkh!" Dane gasped for breath, his hands clawing uselessly at Brandon’s rock-hard forearm. The suffocating pressure on his windpipe turned his face from pale white to deep purple.

Brandon leaned in. His voice didn't rise; it was a dead, low, chilling rasp that vibrated straight through Dane’s skull like an executioner’s axe.

"You have five seconds to pray, boy," Brandon whispered, his dark eyes burning with lethal possession. "Because if your filthy hands even point in her direction again, I won't just break your wrist."

Brandon tightened his grip, lifting Dane another inch higher until the brick behind his head cracked.

"I will personally wipe your family's company off the face of this earth, burn your father's house to the ground, and bury your entire bloodline by sunrise."

Dane wet himself. The dark stain spread down the front of his ruined trousers, his eyes rolling back in sheer, unadulterated terror as tears of agony streamed down his muddy cheeks. "P-please... mercy... I beg you..."

With a look of sheer disgust, Brandon shoved him away.

SLAM!

Dane crashed violently into the metal trash bins at the end of the alley, groaning in agonizing pain as he curled into a pathetic, whimpering ball amidst the garbage.

Brandon didn't spare him another glance. He pulled a dark linen cloth from his pocket, wiped his hand clean, and turned toward Robin.

The lethal, murderous darkness in his eyes softened the moment his gaze found her crimson blazer and those unyielding, brilliant emerald green eyes.

Brandon walked over, stopping barely an inch away, his towering frame casting a warm, protective shadow over her.

"You hit hard, Little Wife," Brandon murmured, a dangerous, breathless smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Though you should have let me break his neck."

Robin met his burning gaze, slipping her hands into her pockets with a faint, mocking smile. "And ruin your expensive coat, Mr. Blackwood? Taking out the trash is my specialty."