Chapter 5
The freezing water of the decorative fountain shocked Preston’s system, slicing through the haze of alcohol and the excruciating pain radiating from his shattered face. He choked, spitting out a mouthful of bloody water as he pushed himself up onto his elbows. His custom-tailored midnight blue tuxedo, once a symbol of his arrogant power, was now completely ruined, clinging to his skin like a heavy, suffocating shroud.
Humiliation, hot and blinding, burned through him entirely. He had just been violently laid out in front of the entire syndicate, in front of the city's most elite donors, and in front of his own mother. The absolute destruction of his pride shattered whatever rational thought he had left.
"You bitch!" Preston roared, the sound echoing off the vaulted ceilings of the ballroom like the cry of a wounded animal.
Driven by blind, uncontrollable fury, Preston scrambled out of the fountain. Water dripped heavily from his clothes, leaving dark, slick puddles on the marble. He didn't care about his bleeding nose or his fractured jaw. He locked his bloodshot eyes onto Imani and charged her, his hands balled into heavy, desperate fists.
Constance shrieked, finally finding her voice. "Preston, no!"
But Preston was entirely beyond reason. He closed the distance between them in three rapid, heavy strides, swinging his right fist in a wild, uncoordinated haymaker aimed directly at Imani’s head, intending to knock her out cold.
Imani didn't step back. She didn't flinch.
With the terrifying, calculated precision of a seasoned fighter, Imani simply slipped his wild swing. She stepped smoothly to the side, allowing Preston’s heavy fist to sail harmlessly past her ear, his own momentum carrying him dangerously off balance.
Before Preston could recover, before he could even process that he had missed, Imani pivoted sharply on her black stilettos. She drove a devastating, immensely powerful front kick directly into his unprotected torso.
The heel of her stiletto connected squarely with the center of his chest. The impact sounded like a heavy wooden bat striking a thick slab of meat. All the air was violently expelled from Preston’s lungs in a loud, sickening whoosh.
The kinetic force of the kick was absolute. Preston shot backward through the air, his feet entirely leaving the wet marble floor. He flew backward with terrifying speed, entirely out of control.
He crashed violently back-first into the long silver banquet console that surrounded the edge of the ballroom.
The collision was spectacular and utterly destructive. The heavy, ornate console literally folded in half beneath his flying weight. The deafening sound of bending metal and shattering porcelain echoed through the room.
Massive, polished silver trays filled with expensive delicacies were launched into the air. Heavy serving domes clattered violently against the walls. Tall, crystal flower vases shattered instantly, sending water and exotic orchids exploding across the floor in every direction. Dozens of silver utensils, plates, and glasses crashed down around him like a deadly metallic rain.
Preston collapsed heavily into the absolute wreckage, pinned beneath the twisted metal of the console and covered in ruined food, shattered glass, and broken silver. He groaned weakly, entirely incapacitated, unable to draw a full breath.
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Constance immediately backed away, her hands shaking violently, completely terrified that the lethal, unstoppable woman in the crimson gown would turn her wrath upon her next.
There was no dialogue. The syndicate had just watched their queen completely dismantle an arrogant usurper without breaking a sweat.
