The Italian restaurant in Williamsburg was loud, packed with people wearing expensive clothes trying to look casual.

Flora walked into the private dining room, her hand gripping Josiah's arm. She wore a simple black dress she had bought years ago. Josiah wore the plaid thrift-store shirt, meticulously ironed by Flora that morning.

The moment they stepped through the door, the loud chatter in the room instantly died.

Ten pairs of eyes snapped toward them.

Sitting at the head of the long table was Grant Holloway. He held a glass of red wine, swirling the dark liquid slowly. A vicious, predatory smirk stretched across his face.

Flora's stomach dropped into her shoes. Her fingernails dug into Josiah's bicep.

Josiah didn't flinch. He placed his hand over hers, his thumb rubbing a slow, calming circle against her skin.

They walked to the two empty chairs at the far end of the table and sat down.

Grant leaned forward, resting his elbows on the white tablecloth. "So, Josiah," Grant said, his voice booming over the background music. "I hear the tech market is brutal right now. How's the job hunt?"

Josiah picked up his fork. He looked at Grant with eyes so blank and bored it made Grant's teeth grind.

"It's fine," Josiah said flatly.

Grant's smirk widened. He pulled out his phone and tapped the screen. "I saw some interesting photos in the group chat today. You shopping at 'Second Chance'. Very eco-friendly of you to wear another man's garbage."

A few people at the table snickered.

Flora's face drained of all color. Her chest heaved. She opened her mouth to speak, but Grant cut her off.

"I also heard you're living off Flora's nurse salary," Grant continued, his voice dripping with venom. "Must be nice to be a kept man. A real parasite."

The word hung in the air like toxic gas.

Flora slammed her hands flat on the table. The silverware rattled. She shot up from her chair, her whole body shaking with violent rage.

Josiah reached up and grabbed her wrist. He tugged gently. "Sit down, Flora. It doesn't matter."

His calm demeanor only poured gasoline on Grant's fury. Grant hated that Josiah wasn't breaking.

Grant stood up. He grabbed his wine glass and walked down the length of the table until he stood directly over Josiah.

"Let me pour you a drink, broke boy," Grant sneered.

Grant tilted his wrist.

A splash of dark red wine poured directly onto Josiah's chest. The crimson liquid soaked instantly into the white and blue plaid fabric, spreading like a fresh bloodstain.

"Oops," Grant said, his eyes gleaming with malice. "Hope you can afford the laundromat."

Something inside Flora snapped.

She lunged forward, shoving Grant in the chest with both hands. Grant stumbled backward, his expensive shoes slipping on the hardwood floor.

Flora stepped in front of Josiah, shielding him with her own body. She looked like a lioness protecting her cub.

Josiah sat perfectly still. He looked up at Flora's back. His heart slammed against his ribs with the force of a sledgehammer. No one had ever stood in front of him. No one had ever fought for him.

"You are a disgusting, pathetic excuse for a man," Flora screamed, her voice tearing through the silent room. "You think having money makes you better than him? You're nothing but a bully!"

Grant's face turned purple. He raised his hand, stepping toward Flora.

Josiah's eyes went pitch black. The muscles in his legs coiled. He shifted his weight, preparing to stand up and break Grant's arm in three places.

Before Josiah could move, Flora slapped Grant's raised hand away. The smack echoed loudly.

"My husband might be broke right now," Flora yelled, her eyes blazing with tears she refused to let fall. "But he has more dignity and talent in his little finger than you will ever have in your entire miserable life!"

She grabbed Josiah's hand. Her grip was like iron.

"And for the record," Flora spat, glaring at Grant. "He is infinitely cleaner than you."

Flora spun around and dragged Josiah toward the door. She threw the heavy wooden door open and marched out, leaving a room full of stunned, silent people behind her.

The door slammed shut, cutting off the restaurant's music.

In the quiet hallway, Flora let go of Josiah's hand. She covered her face, a single, humiliated sob ripping from her throat. She started walking fast toward the exit, desperate to escape.

The cold night air of Williamsburg hit Flora's face like a slap.

She walked fast down the concrete sidewalk, her high heels clicking erratically. Hot tears spilled over her eyelashes, blurring the streetlights into glowing streaks. She wrapped her arms around her stomach, feeling physically sick.

Josiah's long legs easily caught up to her.

He took off his jacket and draped it over her shaking shoulders. The heavy fabric, carrying the heat of his body and the faint smell of cedar, settled over her.

Flora stopped walking. She turned to face him, her chest heaving.

"I'm so sorry," Flora choked out, swiping angrily at her wet cheeks. "I shouldn't have brought you here. I shouldn't have let him humiliate you like that."

Josiah stepped closer. He raised his hands and cupped her face. His thumbs gently wiped the tears from her skin. His touch was burning hot.

"You are the best wife a man could ask for," Josiah said. His voice was a low, rough whisper that vibrated straight into her bones.

Flora leaned into his chest. She closed her eyes, letting his steady heartbeat ground her.

Then, her eyes snapped open. The sadness in her chest evaporated, instantly replaced by a cold, hard fury.

She pushed herself out of his arms. She turned around, staring back at the glowing sign of the restaurant.

"No," Flora said, her voice dropping to a deadly calm. "I am not letting him get away with this."

Josiah grabbed her arm. "Flora, let it go. He's not worth it."

He didn't want her going back in. He had his own plans to destroy Grant, plans that involved corporate sabotage and federal prison.

Flora ripped her arm out of his grip. "He called you a parasite. I'm going to show everyone who the real parasite is."

She turned on her heel and marched straight back to the restaurant. She pushed through the front doors like a hurricane.

Josiah cursed under his breath and followed her.

Inside the private room, Grant was laughing, trying to play off the scene to his uncomfortable friends.

The heavy wooden door flew open, slamming violently against the wall.

Flora stood in the doorway. Her eyes were lethal.

"Let's talk about how you built your 'empire' using Eleanor's trust fund," Flora continued, taking a confident step into the center of the room. She reached into her purse with steady hands.

Over the past few weeks, Flora had been quietly asking around the hospital, piecing together the hushed gossip from the senior nursing staff who had worked there for decades. She had meticulously matched their rumors with public property records and marriage announcements she found online, digging until the ugly truth came to light.

Flora pulled a folded stack of papers from her bag, showing the printed property and business registration records to the room. "Let's talk about the three million dollars your wife's father wired you to save your failing firm last year. You didn't earn a single dime of your wealth, Grant. You married it, and you're bleeding them dry."

The room erupted into shocked gasps. People stared at Grant, their eyes filled with sudden disgust.

Grant's face turned the color of ash. A vein bulged in his forehead. He let out a feral roar and lunged across the room, reaching for Flora's phone.

He never made it.

Josiah stepped in front of Flora. He moved with terrifying, unnatural speed.

Josiah didn't raise his hands. He just stood there, towering over Grant. His eyes were dead, flat, and filled with a promise of absolute violence.

"I have the server logs from the hospital's private network for the last three months," Josiah said. His voice was barely above a whisper, but it cut through the heavy silence of the room like a razor blade. "Take one more step, and your wife's father will see every single inappropriate message you've ever sent to his staff."

The chilling precision of the threat, delivered with absolute, emotionless certainty, hit Grant like a physical wall. Grant froze mid-step, his breathing ragged, his eyes wide with sudden, suffocating panic as he realized his entire carefully constructed life was on the verge of collapse. He backed away, his hands trembling at his sides.

Flora folded the papers and put them back in her purse. She linked her arm through Josiah's.

"My husband is a genius going through a hard time," Flora said proudly, looking at the silent room. "You, Grant, are just a parasite with no decency."

Someone in the back of the room started clapping. Slow, mocking applause aimed at Grant.

Flora turned and walked out, Josiah right beside her.

Her spine was perfectly straight. There were no more tears.

Out on the street, Josiah looked at her profile. The streetlights caught the fierce, beautiful determination in her eyes. A deep, dangerous smile curved his lips.

"Did you mean what you said?" Flora asked, glancing at him. "About breaking his legs?"

Josiah stopped walking. He looked down into her eyes and nodded slowly. "Every word."

Across the street, parked in the shadows, Milo sat in the black sedan. He pressed the stop button on his directional microphone recorder.

"Every word."

Josiah's promise hung in the freezing Williamsburg air. Flora looked up at him. The streetlights cast harsh, sharp shadows across his jawline. He didn't look like a bankrupt programmer. He looked like a man who could snap bones with his bare hands and sleep perfectly fine afterward.

Her heart slammed against her ribs. She didn't feel afraid. She felt a sudden, terrifying rush of safety.

Two days later, the adrenaline of that night had settled into a quiet, stubborn pride. Flora wanted to celebrate. She had made a reservation at Lumiere a month ago, back when she thought she would be celebrating a promotion. She didn't get the promotion. But she had reclaimed her dignity, and she decided they were going anyway.

Flora linked her arm through Josiah's as they walked through the heavy glass doors of Lumiere in Manhattan.

The light from the massive crystal chandeliers hit her eyes, making her squint. The air smelled of expensive truffles and melting butter.

The hostess, a tall woman in a sleek black dress, looked up from her tablet. Her eyes immediately dropped to Josiah's faded, cheap jacket. A flicker of professional disdain crossed her face.

Underneath the harsh lights, Josiah subtly shifted his shoulders. The jacket looked like a thrift-store castoff, but it was actually spun from ultra-premium organic cotton, meticulously distressed by Milo to avoid triggering Josiah's severe fabric allergies. Still, playing the part of a bankrupt nobody required enduring the hostess's condescending glare.

"Do you have a reservation?" the hostess asked, her tone clipped.

Flora sucked in a breath. She forced her shoulders back. "Flora Sawyer. I booked a standard table for two, a month ago."

The hostess tapped her screen, her manicured nails clicking against the glass.

Before she could speak, the loud, arrogant clack of leather shoes echoed from the entrance. A harsh, oily laugh followed.

"Well, well. Look what the cat dragged out of the dumpster."

Flora's stomach dropped. The muscles in her neck locked.

Grant Holloway walked into the waiting area, flanked by two men in expensive suits. He smelled like desperation and heavy cologne. He looked at Flora, then shifted his gaze to Josiah. Grant's smile was wide, but it didn't reach his eyes, which were bloodshot and edged with a frantic, twitching energy. He was trying to project power for his investors, but a tremor in his hand gave away his fear.

"Lumiere?" Grant sneered loudly, his voice a half-octave too high. "Trying to impress your new boy toy, Flora? A glass of tap water in this place would bankrupt him twice."

Several wealthy diners in the waiting area turned their heads. Whispers broke out.

Flora's face burned. The heat rushed straight to her cheeks, making her skin prickle with humiliation.

Josiah stood perfectly still. He didn't blink. He looked at Grant with eyes so dead and flat it was like looking at a rotting corpse. He didn't say a single word.

Grant flinched almost imperceptibly at Josiah's gaze, the memory of the man's cold threat in the restaurant hallway-the quiet, chilling mention of hospital server logs and private messages-flashing in his mind. But with his investors watching, he had to double down. He puffed out his chest and turned to the hostess, slapping his hand flat on the wooden podium.

"I need my usual VIP private room," Grant demanded. "Now."

The hostess flinched. She looked at her tablet, her face pale. "Mr. Holloway, I apologize. The penthouse VIP room has been booked for the entire evening by a highly exclusive guest."

Grant's face turned an ugly shade of purple. His bank accounts had been frozen last night. He was bleeding cash, and he desperately needed to impress these two investors standing behind him.

Grant slammed his fist onto the podium. The sound cracked like a whip.

"I am a Black Card member!" Grant roared, spit flying from his lips. "Kick whoever that nobody is out of the room. Give it to me!"

Flora felt a wave of pure nausea hit the back of her throat. She looked at Grant's red, screaming face and felt disgusted that she had ever let this man intimidate her.

Without thinking, Flora took a step sideways, pulling Josiah slightly behind her back. It was a tiny, subconscious movement. A physical shield.

Josiah looked down at her shoulder blocking his chest. The dead, cold ice in his eyes melted by a fraction of a degree. His jaw unclenched.

Grant saw the movement. His upper lip curled into a vicious sneer.

"Look at you," Grant spat, pointing a shaking finger at Josiah. "Hiding behind a woman's skirt. You are a pathetic coward."

Flora's fingernails dug so hard into her palms that the skin nearly broke.

"A man in a thousand-dollar suit throwing a tantrum at a hostess," Flora said, her voice ice-cold and steady, "is the definition of trash."

Grant's eyes widened. The humiliation from two nights ago flashed in his mind. He lost his mind.

He raised his right hand, stepping toward Flora, ready to strike her right there in the lobby.

Josiah's right arm twitched. The muscles in his forearm coiled tight as steel cables. He shifted his weight to his back foot, preparing to grab Grant's wrist and snap the bone in half.

Before Josiah could move, three large security guards in black suits swarmed the area. They formed a solid wall between Grant and Flora.

"Sir, step back," the lead guard ordered, his hand resting on his radio.

The hostess glared at Grant. "If you disrupt this restaurant again, Mr. Holloway, I will revoke your membership and call the police."

The two investors behind Grant exchanged nervous glances. They took a slow step backward, distancing themselves from the embarrassment.

Grant was hyperventilating. He pointed at the hostess. "Get me Frank Baxter. Get the manager down here right now!"

"Mr. Baxter is upstairs attending to our VIP," the hostess said coldly. "He has no time for you."

Flora's hands were shaking. She couldn't let Josiah endure this public circus anymore. She grabbed Josiah's hand, her fingers wrapping tight around his knuckles.

"Let's go," Flora whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears of frustration. "I'd rather eat hot dogs on the sidewalk than stay here."

She pulled his arm.

Josiah didn't move. He planted his feet. He flipped his hand over, catching her fingers, and squeezed gently. His grip was an anchor.

"We have a reservation," Josiah said, his voice low and incredibly calm. "We are eating here."

Grant laughed from behind the security guards. "You can't even afford the worst table by the kitchen doors! You're a joke!"

Josiah reached into his cheap jacket pocket with his free hand. He pulled out his battered, scratched cell phone. He didn't even look at the screen. His thumb moved in a blur, blind-typing a heavily encrypted command.

He hit send.

The faint swoosh sound of the message going through was completely drowned out by the noise of the lobby. But the corner of Josiah's mouth ticked up into a dark, lethal curve.

Less than sixty seconds later, the sound of frantic footsteps echoed from the grand spiral staircase.

Frank Baxter, the general manager of Lumiere, was running down the stairs. His face was slick with sweat, his chest heaving as if he were sprinting for his life.