First Impression

Melanie's POV

“Get off her!” The words tore out of my throat before I could stop them.

I stood frozen at the edge of the dim hallway, my phone already in my hand, my heart slamming so hard against my ribs I could feel it in my throat.

A tall man in a black shirt had a woman pinned against the wall, one hand locked hard around her wrist, the other clamped over her mouth, and she was fighting him with everything she had, her heels scraping frantic lines against the floor as she twisted and strained to get free. Every part of me went cold and electric at the same time, the way it always did whenever I saw someone smaller being hurt by someone bigger.

The man's head snapped toward me the second I spoke, and in the low, flickering light I caught the hard lines of his face, dark eyes that didn't so much as flinch, a cold, unreadable expression that made my skin crawl in a way I felt all the way down to my fingertips.

He didn't let go of her. Not even a little. That alone told me everything I thought I needed to know.

My hands were already shaking as I dialed emergency services. “There's an assault happening right now,” I said the second the operator picked up, the words tumbling out too fast, tripping over each other in my rush to get them out before it was too late. “Club Mirage, back hallway near the emergency exit. A man is attacking a woman. He's still holding her, please send someone fast.”

The man finally released her, and she stumbled sideways, gasping, one hand flying up to her own throat like she was making sure it was still there. He didn't go to her. He didn't check on her. He took one slow step toward me instead, and I backed up immediately, the phone still pressed against my ear.

“You have no idea what you're doing,” he said, and his voice came out low in a way that somehow frightened me more than shouting would have.

“Stay away from me,” I said, and I heard my own voice shake on every word, hated that it shook, hated that some small, humiliating part of me was more afraid of him hearing that fear than of anything else happening in that hallway.

Something dark passed across his face, there and gone in an instant, and for one endless second I genuinely thought he might come after me anyway, phone or no phone, sirens or no sirens. Instead he looked back at the woman, then at me again, his jaw working like he was biting down on something he badly wanted to say.

“You're making a mistake,” he said, and I told myself, even as a chill ran straight down my spine, that guilty men always said exactly that.

The sirens were already growing louder in the distance, faint at first and then unmistakable, and two bouncers finally appeared at the end of the hallway, followed a few tense minutes later by two uniformed police officers pushing their way through the crowd gathered near the exit.

I pointed straight at the man in the black shirt, the words spilling out of me in a rush I couldn't have slowed down even if I'd wanted to. He didn't run. He didn't raise his voice, didn't so much as blink at the officers closing in around him. He just stood there with that same cold, composed expression while they checked on him and on the trembling woman beside him, and something about how calm he stayed only made my stomach twist tighter.

I watched them lead him toward the front of the club, my hands still trembling at my sides, my whole body flooded with a nausea I couldn't quite place.

But I told myself I had done the right thing.

Cassie appeared out of nowhere only moments later, her eyes wide with alarm, one hand grabbing my arm so hard it almost hurt. “Melanie? What the hell happened? People are saying you called the cops.”

“There was a man attacking a woman in the back,” I told her, still breathless, the words coming out faster than I meant them to. “I saw it happen with my own eyes, Cassie. I couldn't just walk past that and pretend I hadn't seen anything.”

Cassie's face went pale in a way I didn't understand yet, her eyes flicking toward the club entrance and then back to me like she wanted to say something and had changed her mind at the last second. Before she got the chance, an officer walked over to take my statement, and I gave them everything I saw.

By the time the officer finished with me, the man had already been taken outside, and the woman had been led away somewhere I hadn't been able to see. I never did get a clear look at her face, and some part of me, looking back later, wished I had.

Cassie pulled me into the staff break room the moment the officer walked away, her voice dropping low. “Mel… are you sure about what you saw?”

“I know what I saw,” I said, firm, because I needed to hear myself say it firmly, needed the certainty of my own voice to drown out whatever small, uneasy feeling was trying to work its way up from underneath. “He had her pinned against the wall, Cassie. She was fighting to get away from him. I'm not confused about what I saw.”

Cassie bit her lip hard enough that I saw it whiten, then spoke again in a voice so small I almost missed it over the noise still bleeding in from the main floor. “I know this is the worst possible timing, but I still need to tell you why I texted you to come here, because it's urgent. My mom set up a blind date for me tonight, some important business type she's been talking about for weeks, and I cannot go, Mel. I can't. Can you take my place? Just for an hour. Please, I am begging you.”

I stared at her, genuinely certain for a moment that I'd misheard. “Cassie, I just called the police on a man for assault. I am not remotely in the mood to sit across from some stranger and smile over drinks.”

“I know, I know,” she said quickly, squeezing my hands between hers like she could physically press the favor into my skin. “But it's at a quiet restaurant nearby, nothing fancy, and you don't even have to stay long. Just long enough that my mother doesn't find out I skipped it. I'll owe you forever, I swear it.” She hesitated, then added. “I'll cover the rent you're behind on. Please, Mel. I'm desperate.”

I closed my eyes for a second, exhaustion crashing over me all at once. I should have said no. Every reasonable part of me wanted to say no. But my electricity had already been cut off for three days, and my landlord had started leaving notes under my door that used words like final warning, and I needed this in a way that made refusing feel like a luxury I couldn't actually afford.

Dammit.

“Fine,” I said. “One hour. That's all you're getting out of me.”

***

The restaurant was everything the club hadn't been — soft, low lighting instead of flashing colors, quiet conversation instead of pounding bass, furniture that looked more expensive than everything I owned combined.

I stood just inside the entrance for a moment, and checked the name Cassie had given me one more time on my phone, as if repeating it would somehow make the whole situation feel less absurd. Ethan Cole. Some big company, Cassie had said.

Maybe he'd even know someone hiring. Cassie had said he worked for a big company, and God knew I needed a decent job.

A waiter appeared and led me deeper into the restaurant. I can't wait to get this over with, I thought, tugging my dress straight, already rehearsing a polite excuse to leave in under an hour.

The waiter finally stopped in front of a corner table, tucked half in shadow. “Your companion is already here, miss.”

I looked up, and every ounce of that grim determination froze solid in my chest.

The man sitting there was the same one from the hallway who had been assaulting a woman. He was sitting there in a perfectly tailored black shirt like he owned the entire restaurant.

His gaze locked onto mine, and the corner of his mouth curled into something that was absolutely, unmistakably not a smile. I heard my own voice come out barely above a whisper, smaller than I wanted it to be. “You?”

“I don't think there's anything to discuss with you… Cassandra Beaumont,” he said, rising from his seat with an unhurried calm that made the hair on my arms stand straight up. “This won't work, obviously.”

So rude. So unbelievably, infuriatingly rude, and something about the way he said it, like I was an inconvenience he'd already decided to dispose of, lit something hot and reckless in my chest that overrode every ounce of exhaustion I'd been carrying all night.

“Yes, well, I don't think I want to be with someone who doesn't value a woman either,” I said, lifting my chin, refusing to let him see exactly how badly my hands were shaking at my sides.

He crossed the space between us slowly, closing the distance until he was close enough that I caught the rich, expensive scent of his cologne, close enough that I instinctively took a step back just to put air between us again.

“Before you interfere in things that don't concern you,” he said, low and even, “always check yourself properly first. Who knows? Your zipper might be open.”

He walked away before I could even process the sentence, leaving me standing there with my pulse hammering.

What?

I looked down at myself immediately, checking everywhere, my hands flying over my dress in a frantic, humiliating search, only to find my zipper exactly where it belonged, perfectly closed. That bastard. He'd tricked me, made me stand there fumbling at my own clothes in front of a restaurant full of strangers just to prove some petty, condescending point, and worse than that, he'd been the one to walk out on me when the entire arrangement should have gone the other way around.

I'd lost my only shot at getting him to help me find work somewhere better, and for one bitter second that stung more than I wanted to admit.

Then I caught myself. Fuck it. I didn't even want to know where he worked anymore.

I sank into the chair at the table and took a long sip from the wine that had already been poured, not even caring whose glass it was supposed to be. My God, I was pissed. Furious in a way that sat low in my stomach and refused to settle, the kind of anger that made my whole body feel too tight for my own skin.

Eventually I stood and made my way out of the restaurant into the cool night air.

“Give me my money.”

I turned toward the voice, coming from one dim corner just outside the entrance, and felt my whole body go rigid. It was him again. Ethan. Standing over a young boy who couldn't have been more than ten or eleven, his hand held out, palm up, waiting. The boy dug into his pocket with visibly trembling fingers and finally handed over a few crumpled bills, and Ethan took them without hesitation.

Really? I thought, disbelief and disgust curdling together in my chest. Is this what he actually does when nobody is watching? Cassie had made him sound like some untouchable business tycoon, wealthy and respected, and instead here he was, shaking down some kid outside a restaurant like he got some twisted satisfaction out of it. Bullying children as some kind of hobby, apparently, on top of everything else.

That bastard.

I'm going to make him pay, I decided, right there on the sidewalk, my whole body still thrumming with the leftover anger from the restaurant. I looked around quickly for something, anything, and my eyes landed on my own shoe. Without letting myself think too hard about it, I slipped off my heel, drew my arm back, and swung it as hard as I could at the back of his head.

It connected. Hard.

His head snapped around toward me, fury flashing across his face for the first time all night, and I didn't wait to see what came next. I bolted for the curb, flagged down a passing taxi with a wildly waving arm, and threw myself into the back seat, slamming the door behind me a half second before he could reach it.

I sank into the seat, clutching my handbag hard against my chest, my heart still pounding from the sprint, and felt a ridiculous, satisfied smile spread slowly across my face despite everything.

He deserved that, I thought, watching the restaurant shrink into the distance through the back window. Let him think twice before he ever tries bullying another innocent person again.