Chapter 3 - The Contractor’s HandsMargot didn't have time to process the threat. In her world, corporate warfare was fought with stock buyouts, press releases, and legal injunctions—not men approaching on public sidewalks.
“Ms. Callaway,” one of the men said, his voice flat and ominous. “Mr. Crestwood would like a private word with you regarding the Mercer acquisition.”
Margot took a step back, her heart hammering against her ribs. Crestwood Holdings was their fiercest rival, run by a ruthless billionaire named Victor Crestwood.
“Tell Victor I will see him at the board meeting,” Margot said, attempting to maintain her icy composure.
The man reached into his jacket. “That wasn't an invitation.”
In a blur of motion that defied human reaction time, Flynn stepped between Margot and the two men.
There was no hesitation in his movement. Flynn grabbed the first man’s wrist before he could pull whatever was inside his coat, twisting it sharply downward. A metallic click echoed as a suppressed handgun dropped onto the concrete. Flynn followed through with a devastating palm strike to the man’s sternum, sending him sprawling back onto the pavement, gasping for air.
The second man lunged forward, but Flynn pivoted smoothly, sweeping the man’s leg out from under him and pinning him against the side of the black SUV with an iron forearm across his throat.
The entire violent encounter took less than four seconds.
Margot stood frozen, her breath caught in her throat. Her eyes were wide with utter shock.
The man pinned against the SUV choked out a curse. Flynn leaned in close to his ear, his voice dropping into a register that made Margot’s spine tingle with cold fear. It was not the voice of a humble contractor. It was the voice of a predator.
“Tell Crestwood that if he sends amateurs near my wife again,” Flynn whispered lethally, “I won't just stop them. I’ll come find him myself.”
Flynn shoved the man into the back seat of the SUV, slammed the door, and kicked the dropped weapon under the vehicle. The SUV’s tires screeched as the driver panicked and sped away into city traffic.
Flynn turned back around. His chest was barely heaving. He adjusted the cuffs of his flannel shirt as if he had merely been picking up groceries.
Margot stared at him, her hands trembling slightly against her leather handbag.
“Who... who are you?” she breathed, her voice barely audible over the city noise. “No contractor moves like that. Where did you learn to do that?”
Flynn walked back toward her, his face returning to its calm, unreadable mask.
“I spent five years building military outposts in high-risk zones overseas, Margot,” he said calmly, offering his arm to her. “You meet rough people in construction.”
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It was a lie. Margot knew it was a lie. The precision, the lethal economy of movement, the absolute lack of panic—those were not the skills of a carpenter.
For the first time since her grandfather proposed this absurd marriage, Margot realized she wasn't just dealing with a mysterious stranger. She was living with a dangerous man.
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