Chapter 2
3617words
But she wasn't seeking the assassin himself.
She strode purposefully into a dive bar near his operation zone, the neon sign flickering weakly above the door.
The owner—a balding man with a ridiculous pencil mustache—gaped as she entered, his cigarette dangling forgotten from his lower lip.
Twenty minutes and one surprisingly tough negotiation later, Marina secured a position as the bar's cashier—four hours of work for eighty dollars a day.
She eyed the sticky chair behind the register with undisguised revulsion, extracting designer disinfectant wipes from her Hermès bag to meticulously sanitize every inch before perching on its edge.
Five years of Nick's royal treatment had left its mark—some habits were harder to break than others.
As darkness claimed Brooklyn, the bar filled with its regular denizens.
They were mostly young, sporting unnaturally bright hair and too many piercings—dropouts and drifters seeking chemical oblivion from whatever demons chased them.
None expected to find an elegantly coiffed woman in a couture evening gown and flawless makeup perched behind the sticky counter, looking like a diamond that had fallen into a gutter.
Conversations died mid-sentence as they collectively stared, wondering if they'd already had too many drinks.
Within minutes, a line stretched to the door—mostly men who suddenly developed an urgent need for overpriced beer.
"What can I get you?" Marina asked the tattooed mountain of a man before her, her smile professional yet warm.
"Wh-whiskey. Neat." The man's face flushed crimson, his voice cracking like a teenager's.
"Coming right up," she replied, her accent making even those simple words sound like poetry.
The owner leaned against the back wall, dollar signs practically visible in his gleaming eyes.
The door crashed open with enough force to rattle the bottles, and a man in a perfectly tailored black suit materialized in the entrance.
Without a single word, he cut through the crowd like a shark through water, scooped Marina up as if she weighed nothing, and pivoted toward the exit.
"Nick! What the hell do you think you're doing? Put me down this instant!" Marina pounded his back with her fists, her indignation entirely genuine.
Nick remained silent, absorbing her blows without flinching, his long strides eating up the distance to the door.
"Nick, you're hurting me!" She injected a tremor into her voice, letting it crack on the last word.
At that, his stride immediately gentled, though he didn't stop.
The iron band of his arm around her waist slackened just enough to ease the pressure.
He turned his head, his eyes blazing with barely contained fury. "Marina," he growled, "do you have any idea what kind of place this is? The people who frequent it? Who the hell told you to come here?"
"I just—" she widened her eyes, injecting vulnerability into her expression, "—I see how hard you work for every dollar. I thought if I could earn something too, maybe you wouldn't have to take so many dangerous jobs."
Nick stopped dead, as if her words had physically struck him.
He set her down on a nearby concrete barrier with surprising gentleness, crouching to smooth the wrinkles from her thousand-dollar dress.
She turned her face away, letting her lower lip tremble slightly—the perfect picture of wounded pride.
"You're always so rough with me!" She crossed her arms tightly. "You never try to understand what I'm thinking! I came to this neighborhood to be closer to you—to see you sooner, to go home together for once."
Nick knelt before her on the filthy sidewalk, his designer suit collecting grime as his dark eyes searched her face, something vulnerable flickering in their depths.
"I'm sorry, Marina." His voice dropped to a rasp. "I lost control. When Roy called saying he'd spotted you in that dive, I—" He swallowed hard. "Places like that, men like that… they'd see you as prey."
His fingers brushed her hair with a tenderness that belied his lethal reputation, as if touching something infinitely precious.
"You don't need to work in places like this. Just… be patient with me a little longer. Soon I'll give you the life you deserve—better than this."
The ancient streetlights sputtered to life above them, washing his chiseled features in amber, softening the dangerous edges that made lesser men step aside when he walked into a room.
Marina gazed down into Nick's eyes, something twisting painfully in her chest.
This dangerous man was so strangely vulnerable to her.
Her amateur performance had him completely disarmed.
Nick drove her home in a vehicle that could withstand military-grade explosives, then prepared a gourmet dinner with the precision he usually reserved for his more lethal work.
As he moved to leave, she caught the hem of his jacket between her fingers, the gesture childlike in its neediness.
"Nick," she asked softly, "when will you move in with me?"
Nick went perfectly still, disbelief etched across his features. "Marina, you…"
For years, she'd recoiled from his profession, from the blood that sometimes stained his cuffs. She'd refused to be seen with him in her social circles, let alone share living space.
"We're supposed to be together, yet you live across the city in that awful neighborhood." She stepped closer, her perfume enveloping him. "Don't you ever miss me?"
She gazed up at him through her lashes, her lower lip caught between her teeth, eyes shimmering with unshed tears—a masterclass in calculated vulnerability.
Nick's expression shifted to something almost boyish in its uncertainty. "It's not—I never thought you'd want—"
He dropped his gaze to the floor, and when he finally spoke, his voice held a promise: "Tomorrow night. I'll come for you and my things."
"Perfect!" She beamed up at him, her smile bright enough to chase shadows from the room.
After the door closed behind him, she collapsed onto her silk sheets, scrolling through her tablet while savoring the Belgian truffles he'd brought—each one worth more than what she'd "earned" at the bar.
Nick was proving far more malleable than she'd anticipated.
If this trajectory continued, by the time Nick inevitably met Anna, Marina could position herself for a clean break—complete with a golden parachute that would let her vanish from this deadly script forever.
For the first time since her awakening, the future seemed less like a death sentence and more like a puzzle she might actually solve.
The following evening, Nick's promise hummed in her mind throughout the tedious club event. The moment the gathering concluded, she made a beeline for the entrance, pulse quickening with anticipation.
There, amid the sea of designer suits and gleaming luxury vehicles, stood Nick—impossible to miss even in this crowd of beautiful people.
His midnight suit fit like a second skin, his posture military-straight, radiating a dangerous stillness that parted the crowd unconsciously around him.
"Nick!" She called out, waving with uncharacteristic enthusiasm, her voice carrying across the marble entrance.
At the sound of her voice, his expression transformed—the hardness melting away as he moved toward her with predatory grace.
Just as they were about to reach each other, a slender arm in white silk materialized between them.
Anna. Of course it was Anna.
"You must be Marina's… companion." Anna positioned herself like a barrier between them, her smile angelic, her eyes calculating.
Nick's attention shifted to her, his expression cooling several degrees. "I am."
Anna nodded as if confirming a suspicion, then extended her phone toward him with delicate fingers.
Marina's stomach dropped as she recognized Anna's play—
Predictably, the screen displayed her humiliating rejection by Henry Costa in high-definition clarity.
Cold dread washed through her veins as she watched Nick's reaction.
She shot Anna a venomous glare, her hatred for this self-appointed moral guardian intensifying with each second.
Anna launched into her prepared speech, words tumbling out with practiced sincerity:
"I realize this may seem forward of me, but as someone who values honesty above all else, I simply cannot stand by in silence. Your girlfriend has behaved… inappropriately… while in a relationship with you. Despite my gentle attempts to guide her toward making amends, she's shown nothing but defiance. Her general conduct at the club has been consistently—"
Marina bit her lower lip hard enough to taste copper, her eyes fixed on Nick's face, terrified he might create a scene that would permanently bar them both from this exclusive sanctuary.
To her astonishment, Nick barely glanced at the damning footage before his hand shot out, physically moving Anna from his path with casual disregard.
"Move." The single word carried more menace than a shouted threat.
Anna stumbled sideways, her carefully rehearsed monologue dying on her lips, shock replacing her righteous expression.
Nick continued to Marina as if the interruption had never occurred, taking her clutch with casual intimacy, his voice warming noticeably:
"I was thinking Eleven Madison Park for dinner. Unless you'd prefer somewhere else?"
Anna's face flushed with indignation at being so thoroughly dismissed. She raised her voice, following them:
"She's not only throwing herself at other men behind your back, but bleeding you dry financially! Do you know how much she spends on dresses and jewelry? On imported chocolates while you risk your life daily? She—"
"And your point is?" Nick cut her off, his expression shifting to something that made several nearby security guards tense visibly.
Mistaking his response for engagement, Anna squared her shoulders, her voice taking on a preacher's self-righteousness:
"Those thousands she wastes on frivolities could feed starving children or fight human trafficking. Instead, she indulges her selfish whims while you work yourself to the bone. Isn't that morally reprehensible?"
Marina nearly choked on the sheer audacity of Anna's performance.
Was this amateur guilt-tripping supposed to be heroic? How did enjoying a few truffles suddenly make her responsible for world hunger and organized crime?
Anna stood there radiating self-satisfaction, as if expecting a halo to materialize above her perfectly styled hair at any moment.
Marina bit back a laugh, deciding to play this new angle to her advantage.
She clutched Nick's sleeve with trembling fingers, allowing her eyes to fill with perfectly timed tears:
"Darling," she whispered, the endearment falling from her lips for the first time, "maybe she's right about my spending habits…"
Nick's ears flushed crimson at the unexpected endearment. "Marina," he muttered, clearly flustered, "not here."
He turned to Anna, his expression shifting to something that made the air between them seem to crystallize:
"Every single thing she owns comes from me." His voice dropped to a dangerous purr. "I take pleasure in seeing her enjoy what I provide. And it's absolutely none of your damn business. I make it a rule not to harm women, but keep pushing, and I'll gladly make you the exception."
The arctic fury in Nick's eyes had Anna stumbling backward, her righteous facade crumbling as she bit her lip and fled without another word.
On the drive home, Nick made a special stop for Marina's favorite French truffles, then surprised her with a reservation at an exclusive riverside restaurant where the chef greeted him by name.
About the damning video, he said absolutely nothing.
True to his word from the previous day, Nick arrived that evening with two modest suitcases containing his entire life.
Though her apartment boasted designer furnishings and breathtaking views, the premium Manhattan location meant space was at a premium—just a master suite and a smaller guest room.
Without discussion, he deposited his bags in the guest room, leaving her the luxurious master suite she'd always occupied alone.
Hours later, when the city's glow filtered through the blinds, Marina padded silently to Nick's door, pillow clutched to her chest.
She slipped inside, placed her pillow alongside his, and carefully slid under the covers, wrapping her arms around his waist from behind.
A subtle tremor ran through Nick's body at her touch, heat radiating where her arms encircled him.
"Nick," she whispered against his shoulder blade, "I never had feelings for Henry. I can't explain that video—I honestly don't remember wanting to confess to him."
Her forehead rested against the warm plane of his back, her words muffled against his skin.
She'd spent hours searching for the right explanation, but how could she explain something that had genuinely occurred, yet felt foreign to her own desires?
Though Nick hadn't mentioned it once, the unspoken video hung between them like a specter.
The original script loomed over her like a guillotine blade—and as the protagonist, Nick controlled whether it would fall. She couldn't afford his doubt.
She pressed herself more firmly against him, her voice dropping to a vulnerable whisper:
"Can you believe me, even when the evidence says otherwise?"
In the darkness, Nick's measured breathing faltered slightly.
He shifted, propping himself on one elbow to switch on the bedside lamp. His other hand reached for the cashmere throw, which he wrapped around her shoulders with unexpected tenderness.
She curled into herself beneath the soft fabric, blinking up at him with unguarded vulnerability.
"Marina." Her name in his mouth sounded like a prayer, his voice rough with emotion.
"You don't have to do this—come to me like this."
"It doesn't matter who catches your eye. Even if every word from your lips is carefully crafted deception—" his fingers brushed her cheek with reverence, "—I'm willing to be your fool."
The raw honesty in his words stole her breath completely.
"You can't possibly mean—"
Nick's calloused fingertip traced the curve of her cheekbone with impossible gentleness.
"As long as you remain by my side," his voice dropped to a whisper, "I can endure anything else."
Nick gathered her into his arms like something infinitely precious and carried her back to her own bed.
After the door closed behind him, Marina stared at the ceiling, sleep a distant impossibility as her mind raced.
The script was veering so far from its prescribed path that she could no longer predict what might happen next.
According to the original storyline, Nick and Anna's fateful meeting should occur next week at the underground fighting ring. Nick would face Roundtable trouble, Anna would swoop in as his savior, and their epic romance would ignite from that perfect meet-cute.
Instead, they'd met prematurely, with zero chemistry between them. Worse, Nick had threatened the supposed heroine because of Marina—the disposable villainess who should be facilitating their union, not preventing it.
Most disturbing of all was Nick's behavior—utterly inconsistent with his character blueprint.
In the script, Nick harbored no real affection for Marina. She existed solely as an obstacle to overcome, a dark contrast to illuminate the pure love between him and Anna.
Yet now Nick was steadily diverging from his scripted path, as if following a different story altogether.
He appeared to have genuinely fallen for her—the disposable shadow character meant only for villainy and destruction.
Nick's declaration echoed in her mind, scrambling her carefully laid plans and keeping sleep at bay until dawn painted the sky.
The days blurred together, and suddenly the pivotal weekend arrived.
Nick departed at dawn for the fighting arena, his knuckles already wrapped in preparation.
Beyond his lethal primary profession, he moonlighted in various capacities to ensure their lifestyle never faltered.
After savoring the gourmet breakfast Nick had left—complete with fresh-squeezed juice and still-warm pastries—she dressed carefully and made her way to the underground arena.
Today was destined to be the fateful meeting between Nick and Anna—the cornerstone of the entire narrative.
She slipped into the arena, selecting a shadowed corner seat and ordering a soda she had no intention of drinking.
Nick prowled the edge of the fighting space, rolling his powerful shoulders as he prepared, every movement controlled and lethal.
Right on cue, Anna materialized at the entrance.
She wore a deceptively simple white dress that probably cost more than most cars, her honey-blonde hair in a high ponytail—the picture of wholesome beauty radiating that unmistakable heroine glow.
Standing near Nick, they created a visual that magazine editors would kill to capture—dark and light, danger and innocence, perfectly balanced.
Marina's chest tightened painfully; she blamed the excessive citrus in her drink rather than acknowledge the emotion for what it was.
The script activated with perfect timing—several tattooed mountains of muscle at a nearby table suddenly erupted, flipping furniture and storming toward the ring where Nick stood.
They surrounded Nick like wolves circling prey.
"You fucking fraud!" The ringleader jabbed a meaty finger at Nick's chest. "I put ten grand on you to win, and you threw the match to that nobody! We had people analyze the fight—you were holding back. Were you running some kind of betting scam?"
The ringleader—six-foot-six of prison muscle and rage—loomed over Nick, his gold teeth catching the harsh lights.
This was it—the perfect setup for Anna's heroic intervention and the beginning of their fated romance.
A gambling dispute in an underground fight club—straight from the cliché playbook of every mafia romance ever written.
The crowd sensed blood in the water, forming a tight circle around the confrontation, phones already recording.
Nick stood unnaturally still at the center of the hurricane, his face a perfect mask of indifference as he continued stretching his shoulders.
The thug, interpreting Nick's calm as fear, puffed up further.
"Admit you cheated, return our betting money, or we'll carry you out of here in pieces." Spittle flew from his mouth as he delivered the threat.
The dialogue was so on-the-nose it was almost painful to witness.
But now came Anna's moment to shine—her heroic entrance that would capture Nick's heart forever.
She would step between Nick and danger, deploy her clever negotiation skills, and resolve the situation to universal acclaim while the thugs skulked away in shame.
Five minutes stretched into eternity.
Where was Anna? Why wasn't she seizing her destined moment?
Marina spotted Anna hovering at the crowd's edge, her face drained of color, eyes wide with unmistakable terror.
The supposed heroine seemed frozen in place, physically incapable of moving toward the confrontation.
Meanwhile, the situation escalated—Nick's collar twisted in the ringleader's meaty fist as he was slammed against the concrete wall.
Marina's heart raced. Despite Nick's lethal capabilities, she knew he wouldn't fight back here—this venue belonged to his friend, and he wouldn't jeopardize the business with violence.
Acting on impulse, Marina pushed through the crowd to Anna's side and hissed:
"What are you waiting for? This is your moment! If you don't step in now, Nick could be seriously hurt!"
Anna's terrified eyes met hers, her perfectly glossed lips trembling as she whispered:
"I—I can't! I'm terrified! Why should I risk myself? I'm the heroine—Nick will fall for me eventually no matter what I do! Those men could be killers! They might have connections!"
Marina's jaw dropped as realization struck like lightning—Anna was also a transmigrated soul, fully aware of her "heroine" status and exploiting it shamelessly.
At that moment, one thug reached out and slapped Nick's face with casual disrespect.
"What's wrong, pretty boy? Cat got your tongue? The boss wants his money back..."
Something snapped inside Marina. Before she could process her own actions, she was shoving through the crowd, slapping the man's hand away from Nick's face.
"Dream on, asshole!" Her voice cut through the tension like a whip crack. "You want a refund on your pathetic bet? The free watered-down whiskey they gave you losers was already charity! If you don't understand fighting strategy, don't blame the fighter when you lose your lunch money!"
The thugs froze, collectively blindsided by this designer-clad woman hurling insults at them.
Nick's arm shot out, yanking her behind his body, his voice a dangerous growl:
"Marina! Get out of here. Now."
"Not happening." She planted her feet, chin raised in defiance.
The ringleader's face purpled with rage as he smashed his glass against the floor, jagged shards exploding outward as he jabbed a finger at them both:
"Brought your little bitch to fight your battles? Listen good—you're refunding every cent today, or we're painting these walls with both of you!"
"You think we're some street punks? I represent the Roundtable! My bets don't lose! This was fixed from the start—you didn't even kill him! What kind of victory is that?"
Marina's laugh held no humor. "Kill? What century are you living in? Hotel rules don't apply here. This arena has its own code—technical submissions are standard practice. Your precious sigil means jack shit here, so tuck it back in your pants where it belongs!"
The thugs lunged for her throat with a roar, but his wrist was suddenly locked in Nick's grip, the bones grinding audibly together.
With three precise movements, Nick had the man on his knees. In one fluid motion, he stripped off his jacket, draped it over Marina's head like a shield, scooped her against his chest, and carved a path through the stunned crowd toward the exit.
He set her down on a park bench two blocks away, then crouched before her, his silence more eloquent than words as his eyes searched her face.
Anna appeared moments later, barely winded despite her supposed rush, extending a bottle of antiseptic and bandages with a tremulous smile:
"Your hand is bleeding," she murmured, voice honey-sweet. "Let me tend to it for you."
Nick glanced at the offered supplies, hesitated fractionally, then accepted them with a slight nod.
"Thank you." The words were polite but devoid of warmth.
Nick studied Anna's face as she ducked her head with practiced modesty, the tableau between them picture-perfect—hero and heroine in their first meaningful exchange.
Anna was right; as the designated heroine, Nick's heart was her birthright regardless of her actions.
