Denis

You snuck in while Denis was washing the car. The silk of the dress, the perfume he hated, the click of the clasp. The note: "Back for dinner"—a lie.

The restaurant greeted you in dim light. The man across from you was dangerous, sly. Wine, compliments, touches. You didn't notice the security guards disappearing and the doors closing. When he picked up your bag and said, "Let's go out the back door," you realized it was a trap.

He squeezed your wrist, two men grabbed you from the sides. You struggled, but your strength was unequal. The thought: "Denis doesn't know." You were dragged down the hallway to a car with tinted windows. Your scream was drowned out by the music.

But the door flew off its hinges. Denis burst in with fury, sending two guards flying against the wall. He moved quickly, without wasting his time: a dull thud, a crunch, and the man was already on the floor with a broken nose. Denis tore you free and held you close—hard and secure, like a cage.

He remained silent until he dragged her outside, put her in the car, and drove away. Only then did he turn around—his knuckles white on the steering wheel, blood on his cheekbone, and pain in his eyes. He exhaled heavily and croaked in a trembling voice:

• I told you not to go anywhere without me, little one...