Chapter 4 - The Gala of Predators
The Grand Horizon Hotel’s penthouse ballroom was a shimmering monument to excess. Crystal chandeliers cast prismatic reflections over tuxedo-clad billionaires, socialites draped in diamonds, and sports celebrities sipping champagne from flutes worth more than my first car.
When Ryan and I stepped out of the private elevator, all eyes naturally drifted toward us. Ryan looked immaculate in a tailored charcoal suit, but it was me they were looking at.
I wore a backless, emerald-green velvet gown that hugged my athletic frame with absolute precision—not hiding my muscle, but celebrating it. My hair was swept up into a sleek, elegant knot, and my makeup was understated, allowing my natural, predatory composure to do the talking.
"Look who decided to grace us with her presence," a smooth, cultured voice echoed from across the room.
The crowd parted smoothly, revealing Marcus Vance.
He was older now—silver threading through his immaculate hair, crow's feet framing his sharp, predatory eyes—but his presence was as magnetic and toxic as ever. He wore a white tuxedo jacket, holding a glass of scotch in one hand and a cigar in the other.
"Evelyn," Vance purred, walking toward us with slow, deliberate steps. "And the lucky husband. I must admit, I wasn't entirely sure your little security detail was persuasive enough to get you past the velvet ropes."
"Your goons have terrible manners, Marcus. I prefer to let myself in," I replied, my voice calm and completely unfazed as I accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.
Vance laughed, a rich, baritone sound that carried across the ballroom. "Still got that bite, don't you? Ten years away from the cage, and you still walk into a room like you own the place. You know, when you walked out on our contract a decade ago, half my board thought I should sue you into bankruptcy. But I always knew—fighters like you don't retire. You just hibernate."
"I am retired, Marcus," I said, taking a slow sip of my champagne. "I came here tonight to deliver a message in person so you wouldn't keep sending those pathetic thugs to my front door."
Vance’s smile didn't reach his eyes. He took a sip of his scotch, leaning in close. "A message? Oh, Evelyn. You really don't understand the board you're playing on, do you? Your husband’s firm? Already received a notice of contract termination from one of our shell corporations this morning. By tomorrow afternoon, he’ll be unemployed. By next week, your mortgage will be flagged for review. You think you can live a quiet suburban life while ignoring men like me?"
Ryan’s face tightened with anger, and he took a step forward, but I placed a gentle hand on his forearm, holding him back.
"Is that your best move, Marcus?" I asked, tilting my head with a faint, mocking smile. "Financial sabotage? How thoroughly pedestrian. I expected more from the great Marcus Vance. Back in the day, you used to settle things in the ring."
Vance’s eyes flared with sudden, dangerous interest. "Are you offering?"
"I'm offering you a choice," I said, my voice dropping an octave, cutting through the ambient party noise like a scalpel. "You leave Ryan’s company alone. You wipe our names off your radar permanently. You never send another goon to my house."
"And if I refuse?" Vance challenged, his grin widening.
"Then I don't just step back into the cage," I whispered, stepping closer until I was looking directly into his cold eyes. "I dismantle your entire promotion from the inside out. I start talking to the press about the offshore accounts, the fixed matches, the medical cover-ups you buried back in 2014. Let's see how many billionaires invest in Vanguard Promotions when the federal government opens a RICO investigation."
For a split second, the color drained from Vance’s face. He knew—just as well as I did—that I had kept receipts.
Before Vance could formulate a reply, the heavy double doors at the end of the ballroom burst open. A chorus of gasps echoed through the room as a towering, scarred figure strode in uninvited, flanked by cameras and microphones.
May you like
It was Viktor "The Siberian Bear" Petrov—my former arch-rival and the most feared heavyweight knockout artist in MMA history. And he wasn't here to party. He was here for me.
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