Chapter 3
Trent’s face contorted into a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. His fair skin turned a blotchy, furious red, entirely humiliated by her blatant disrespect. The illusion of his control had been shattered in a matter of seconds, and the only way he knew how to repair it was through immediate, brutal violence.
"I'm going to break your jaw!" Trent roared, his white tuxedo jacket shifting violently as he pulled his arms back.
He swung the heavy metal golf club with all his strength, aiming a devastating horizontal strike directly at Nia's ribs, fully intending to leave her a crumpled, broken mess on the bridal suite floor.
He never even came close.
Nia moved with a fluid, terrifying precision that completely defied the restrictions of her heavy ivory lace mermaid gown and satin stilettos. As the club sliced through the air, she simply wasn't there anymore. She sidestepped the attack with microscopic timing, her movements calculating and brutally efficient.
As the club passed harmlessly by her torso, Nia’s hand shot out like a viper. She seized Trent’s wrist with a grip like industrial steel, her diamond choker flashing in the bright sunlight. Trent let out a sudden gasp of shock as the momentum of his own swing was instantly weaponized against him.
"Let go of me!" Trent yelled, trying desperately to yank his arm back.
Nia didn't say a single word. Her face was a mask of absolute, terrifying calm. She twisted his wrist with a sharp, agonizing torque that sent a shockwave of pain up his arm. Trent’s fingers involuntarily sprang open, a cry of pain tearing from his throat. Nia stripped the golf club from his hands with effortless grace.
In the exact same fraction of a second, she shifted her weight, driving the heel of her hand directly into the center of Trent’s chest.
The strike was explosive. The sheer, blunt force of the blow lifted Trent entirely off his patent leather dress shoes. He flew backward across the suite, his arms flailing wildly as the breath was violently forced from his lungs.
Trent crashed heavily onto the plush, antique velvet sofa in the center of the room. The elegant piece of furniture groaned under the impact as Trent tumbled over the armrest, his expensive white tuxedo jacket wrinkling and tearing slightly at the shoulder. He landed in a pathetic, tangled heap, gasping frantically for air like a fish thrown onto a dry dock.
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Nia stood perfectly still beside the vanity, the metal golf club now resting easily in her grip. She did not breathe heavily. Her tiara was completely undisturbed. She looked down at the man who was supposed to be her husband, watching him wheeze and clutch his chest in absolute disbelief.
The silence in the room was absolute, save for the pathetic, ragged sound of Trent struggling to pull oxygen back into his bruised lungs. He stared up at her, his eyes wide with a sudden, overwhelming terror. He finally realized that he was locked in a room with a monster, and he was the one who had turned the key.
