Chapter 2: Get Your Fucking Hands off Her

Summer's POV

I scrambled to my feet, wincing as pain shot through my ankle. "I'm fine. Just leave me alone." My voice came out rougher than intended, thick with the tears I refused to let fall in front of strangers.

The taller man took a step forward, his dark eyes locking onto mine with unsettling intensity.

"Wait," he said , his voice commanding yet somehow gentle. His hand shot out, catching my wrist before I could turn away.

I jerked my arm away, anger and heartbreak from the day's events suddenly boiling over. "I don't fucking know you!" I snapped, tears threatening to spill. "Don't touch me!"

Something flickered across his perfect features—surprise? Interest? His hand dropped to his side, but his eyes never left my face.

"Hey—" he started again.

"Just leave me alone!" I limped away as quickly as my injured ankle would allow, not bothering to hide the tears streaming down my face now.

I didn't look back, but I could feel those dark eyes following me, their intensity burning into my skin like a physical touch.

---

The Manhattan Club's crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead, refracting through my fourth—or was it fifth?—glass of whiskey. I'd never been much of a drinker, and I definitely wasn't the type to frequent Manhattan's elite nightspots alone. But what else can I do? After the nightmare at The Plaza, I needed something stronger than tears to dull the bitter taste of betrayal lingering in my mouth.

Each sip burned going down, but it was nothing compared to the pain eating away at my heart.

"Now that's a crime," a male voice drawled from my left. "A beautiful lady drinking alone?"

I didn't bother turning my head. My skin crawled at his tone—that particular blend of entitlement and false charm I'd grown too familiar with in the financial district. "Not interested."

"Playing hard to get?" A second voice joined in, closer this time. "Come on, sweetheart. Let us show you a good time."

My head was spinning more than it should have been, even with the alcohol. The room seemed to tilt and shift around me, the crystal chandeliers blurring into streaks of light. Something's wrong. Creeping dread seeped through my alcohol-induced haze. This wasn't normal drunkenness.

"Back off," I managed, my tongue feeling strangely heavy. "I said I'm not interested." Why can't I think straight? What's happening to me?

The first man chuckled as he got closer. "That's not what your eyes are saying. Let's go somewhere more... private."

I tried to stand, but my legs wouldn't cooperate. Terror clawed at my chest as I realized how vulnerable I was. Oh god, what did they put in my drink?

"Looks like someone can't handle her liquor," the second man said, his voice dripping with false concern. "We should help her out."

Strong hands gripped my arms, pulling me up. I tried to fight, to scream, but my muscles refused to respond. Everything was blurring, fading at the edges.

"Let go!" I slurred, the words barely audible even to my own ears.

"Don't worry, sweetheart. We'll take good care of you," one of them whispered, his breath hot against my ear.

They half-dragged, half-carried me toward the back of the club. Through my drug-induced haze, I registered dim lighting, private booths, the sounds of exclusive Manhattan nightlife fading behind us. We stopped at a door marked "VIP," and panic shot through me like electricity.

"No," I gasped, summoning every ounce of strength to pull away. "Stop!"

One of them laughed, the sound harsh and grating. "Feisty. I like that."

The door swung open, revealing a plush private room with low lighting and leather couches. They shoved me inside, and I stumbled, falling onto one of the couches. My limbs felt leaden, unresponsive.

"Please," I whispered, hating how weak I sounded but too terrified to care. "Let me go."

"Relax," the taller one said, loosening his tie with practiced ease. "You'll enjoy this."

The other one locked the door, then turned to me with a predatory smile. "No one's going to interrupt us now."

Horror washed over me as they began unbuckling their belts, their intentions sickeningly clear.

"Open wide, sweetheart," one of them sneered, unzipping his pants. "We've got something for that pretty mouth of yours."

Tears blurred my vision as I tried to push myself up, to find some escape route. My limbs felt like lead, refusing to cooperate. This can't be happening. Not today. Not after everything else.

"Don't—" My protest came out as a weak whisper.

The door suddenly burst open with enough force to splinter the frame.

"What the—" One of the men spun around, his protest dying on his lips.

Framed in the doorway stood a tall figure in an impeccable suit. Even through my hazy vision, I recognized the sharp angles of his face, those dark eyes that seemed to freeze everything they looked at.

"Get your fucking hands off her." His voice was deceptively soft, but something in it made the room temperature drop several degrees.

My would-be attackers froze. "Who do you think... wait, Mr. Stark? We... we didn't know she was with you."

Stark. The name penetrated my fog-filled mind, sending a jolt of recognition through me. The man from the crosswalk. The one with the Bentley. Of all the people in New York, I had to be rescued by another Stark?

"Did you touch her?" His voice remained calm, but the threat beneath it was unmistakable. This wasn't the casual arrogance I'd grown used to from Alexander—this was something else entirely. Raw power, barely contained.

The two men fumbled to zip up their pants, terror evident on their faces.

"Mr. Stark, we... we haven't touched her yet, I swear!" The shorter one backed away, hands raised defensively.

I struggled to stand, but my legs gave out. Instead of hitting the floor, I collided with something solid—someone. Strong arms steadied me, and I caught the faintest hint of a crisp, winter-fresh scent.

"So hot," I mumbled, pressing closer to the cool fabric of his suit.

There was a moment of absolute stillness. Then those strong arms swept under my legs, lifting me effortlessly. The sudden movement sent the room spinning again, and I buried my face in his shoulder with a small whimper.

"Please," I gasped, not even sure what I was asking for.

He didn't respond, but his arms tightened slightly around me. The gesture sent an odd shiver through my overheated body. Or maybe that was just the drugs. Everything was getting harder to track, reality dissolving at the edges.

"James." The single word carried the weight of a command.

"Yes, sir." A new voice, crisp and professional. I hadn't even noticed the second man entering behind Stark.

"Make sure they never touch another woman again," Brandon ordered, his voice ice-cold. "Permanently."

"With pleasure, sir."

The world swayed as he carried me out of that terrible room, past wide-eyed club patrons, toward what I vaguely recognized as a private elevator.