Blair Phillips POV:

Comet' s terrified whinny echoed in the cavernous ballroom, a ghost' s scream from a five-year-old grave. The sound sliced through the cold fog in my mind, igniting a white-hot inferno of pure, animalistic rage.

My vision tunneled. The gilded ceiling, the crystal chandeliers, the horrified faces of the guests-they all vanished. There was only the sound. That terrible, final sound.

With a guttural scream that was torn from the depths of my soul, I scrambled to my feet. I grabbed the nearest shard of glass from the floor and lunged at the woman holding the phone.

She shrieked as I swung, the glass slicing a clean line across her forearm. The phone clattered to the marble floor, the video still playing.

Another guest screamed. The circle of onlookers, who had been inching closer like morbid tourists, scrambled back in terror.

I turned, my eyes wild, the bloody shard of glass held out like a talon. I saw the woman I had cut, her face pale with shock, staring at the blood welling from her arm as if it were a foreign substance. The sight of her pain brought a flicker of dark satisfaction. It was a beautiful, crimson masterpiece against the canvas of her pale skin.

The whispers died instantly. The room was so quiet I could hear the frantic pounding of my own heart. No one moved. No one dared to even breathe too loudly. They were all looking at me, at the "crazy" woman with blood on her hands and madness in her eyes.

And for the first time that night, they were afraid of me. Good.

The security guards, who had been closing in, stopped in their tracks. They exchanged uncertain glances, their professional training failing them in the face of such raw, unpredictable fury. They knew I was Fitzgerald Kirk's problem, but they also knew a cornered animal was the most dangerous kind.

"Useless trash," I muttered, my lip curling in a sneer. They weren't a threat. They were just part of the scenery.

My target was Fitzgerald.

I pushed past the frozen statues of the security team and stalked towards the private lounge where I knew he had taken Cassondra. The sounds from the ballroom faded behind me, replaced by the roaring in my ears.

The door to the lounge was slightly ajar. I could hear their voices from within.

"Get Dr. Evans here now," Fitzgerald was saying, his voice tight with controlled anger. "And tell him to be discreet."

There was a soft sniffle. "Fitz," Cassondra whimpered. "She's crazier than before. Did you see her eyes? It was like she wanted to kill me."

I pressed my ear to the door.

"That day... after the video... she came at me with the poker," Cassondra's voice trembled. "If you hadn't stopped her, she would have blinded me. Or worse. You have to do something, Fitz! You can't let her get away with this again!"

"I know, darling. I'll handle it," Fitzgerald soothed. There was a pause. When he spoke again, his voice was a low, chilling murmur, meant only for her but loud enough for me to hear. "She's a broken toy that just needs to be put back in her box. I enjoyed breaking her once. I'll enjoy it again."

He chuckled, a dark, ugly sound. "She always had so much fire. So much fight. Especially when it came to that stupid horse. She actually defied me for it. Me. Can you believe it?"

My hand trembled. I remembered that day. He had come to my room, his eyes glittering with a strange light. He had tried to kiss me, to touch me. Comet had sensed my fear. My beautiful, brave horse had kicked down his stall door and charged, placing himself between me and Fitzgerald, his teeth bared.

The memory was so vivid I could almost feel the rough wood of the wall against my back, the terror that had seized me. Fitzgerald had wanted more than just my obedience. He had wanted to own me, body and soul. He had wanted to put his child inside me, to chain me to him forever. Comet had saved me. And Fitzgerald had never forgiven him for it. The attack had left me barren, unable to conceive. A fact that had enraged Fitzgerald even more.

The roaring in my ears intensified. My phone vibrated in my clutch. I glanced at the screen. Jordan.

My finger hovered over the ignore button, but then I answered.

"Blair? Are you okay? My security just told me what happened. Stay right there. I'm coming." His voice was a lifeline of sanity in my sea of madness.

"Jordan," I whispered, my own voice sounding foreign and broken. "He's here. I'm... I'm going to kill him."

"Don't do anything, Blair. Wait for me. Please."

But I couldn't wait. The rage was a physical thing, a beast clawing its way out of my chest.

"Help me, Jordan," I choked out, a single tear escaping and tracing a path through the grime on my cheek. "Come and get me."

I ended the call.

I took a deep breath, the air burning my raw throat. Then, with a scream that held five years of pain, rage, and grief, I kicked the lounge door open.

It slammed against the wall with a deafening crash.

Fitzgerald and Cassondra spun around, their faces a picture of shock.

I didn't hesitate. I lunged forward, the knife I had taken from him still in my hand. He tried to push Cassondra aside, but he wasn't fast enough.

I drove the small blade deep into his shoulder.

He cried out, a sharp, guttural sound of pain.

I twisted the knife, my eyes locked on his.

"This," I snarled, my face inches from his, "is for Comet. Now, go to hell."

Blair Phillips POV:

A high-pitched alarm began to shriek through the private lounge, a piercing sound that signaled a security breach. It was a fitting soundtrack for the chaos I had unleashed.

Cassondra, her face a mask of terror and rage, launched herself at me. "You psycho!" she screamed, her nails scratching at my arms. "You' re a monster!"

I shoved her away easily. She stumbled back, clutching her already bleeding head. "He hurts me, and I' m the monster?" I laughed, a wild, unhinged sound. "You have a very twisted sense of justice, Cassondra."

"He' s the heir to the Kirk empire! You' re nothing!" she shrieked, tears of fury streaming down her face. She rushed to Fitzgerald' s side, trying to staunch the bleeding from his shoulder with a silk napkin. "Fitz, my love, are you alright?"

Fitzgerald gritted his teeth, his hand covering the wound. A dark stain was spreading rapidly across his pristine white shirt. He looked at me, not with pain, but with that same terrifying, possessive fire in his eyes.

"You' re not getting out of here alive, Blair," he growled, pushing himself to his feet. He was unsteady, but his voice was iron.

He took a menacing step towards me. "There' s a saying, Blair. Heaven has a path, but you refuse to walk it. Hell has no doors, yet you insist on breaking them down."

His eyes darted around the room, landing on a pair of heavy, ornate scissors on a nearby desk, used for cutting cigar tips. He snatched them up, the polished steel glinting under the lights.

"Let' s see who goes to hell first," he hissed, advancing on me.

I didn' t back down. The fear I should have felt was burned away by the inferno of my rage. I held the small, bloodied knife tightly, my knuckles white. This was it. The final confrontation. One of us wasn't walking out of this room.

I charged at him, a battle cry tearing from my throat.

He raised the scissors, ready to strike.

In that split second, just as we were about to collide, the door burst open again.

A figure moved with impossible speed. A powerful leg shot out, connecting with Fitzgerald' s chest in a sickening crunch.

Fitzgerald flew backward, hitting the wall with a heavy thud and sliding to the floor, gasping for air.

The scissors clattered from his grasp.

I didn't stop. My momentum carried me forward, past the new arrival. My target was Cassondra. She was standing frozen, her mouth open in a silent scream. I didn't think. I just reacted. I slashed with the knife, catching her on the arm. She shrieked, stumbling away from me.

Then, strong arms wrapped around me from behind, pulling me into a solid, warm chest.

"It' s okay, Blair. I' ve got you."

Jordan.

He held me tight, his body a shield between me and the wreckage I had caused. He gently pried the knife from my hand.

Fitzgerald, clutching his chest, struggled to get up. "Who the hell are you?" he choked out, his eyes blazing at Jordan.

Jordan didn' t answer him. He turned me in his arms, his hands cupping my face. His thumbs gently wiped away the blood and tears from my cheeks.

"Look at you," he murmured, his voice thick with pain and anger. "He did this to you."

His gaze fell to the cuts on my arms and the dark bruises forming on my neck. His expression hardened, his jaw tightening until it was a line of granite.

He turned his head, his eyes locking onto Fitzgerald. "You touched her." It wasn' t a question. It was a death sentence.

Jordan released me and bent down, picking up the heavy scissors Fitzgerald had dropped. He tested their weight in his hand, a cold, calculating look in his eyes.

Fitzgerald laughed, a ragged, painful sound. "And who are you? Her new keeper? Does she whimper for you at night, too?" He sneered, his eyes filled with venom. "I had her first. Don' t ever forget that. She' s my possession. She' s just a broken little thing I picked up off the street."

Jordan' s face remained impassive, but I saw the muscles in his neck cord.

Before Fitzgerald could utter another word, Jordan was on him. He grabbed Fitzgerald by his blood-soaked shirt and slammed his head against the wall. Once. Twice.

"You will never," Jordan said, his voice a low, lethal whisper, "speak her name again."

He drew his arm back, the scissors held like a dagger, aimed at Fitzgerald' s eye.

At that exact moment, the lounge was flooded with security. Not the hotel' s security this time, but a dozen men in sharp black suits, moving with military precision. My men. Jordan' s men.

Cassondra, seeing the tide turn, pointed a trembling finger at us. "Arrest them! Arrest them both! I' ll pay you! A million dollars to whoever takes them down!"

Fitzgerald, dazed but still arrogant, managed a bloody smirk. "You' re outnumbered," he gasped, spitting blood onto the floor. "This is Kirk territory. My family owns this city."

He looked at me, his eyes gleaming with a sick, possessive light. "It' s not over, Blair. Come back to me. Beg me. And maybe… maybe I' ll let your new boyfriend live."