Never Again Yours (Isadora and Magnus) novel Chapter 129

“...River Avenue.”

Isadora could hear the sound of hurried, heavy footsteps on the other end of the line.

“Isadora, get in the car right now. Don’t talk to him until I arrive. Wait for me. And... don’t be afraid.”

Her body ached, and the bald thug’s threats still rang in her ears.

Isadora was only pretending to be brave.

But when Victor whispered, “Don’t be afraid,” her eyelashes trembled ever so slightly.

The next moment, while the bald man’s attention was elsewhere, she seized her chance—flinging the car door open, slamming it shut again, and locking it in one swift motion.

The man hadn’t expected her to pull a stunt like that, and his anger flared.

He pounded on the window with both fists, his voice muffled but furious.

“Bitch! You worthless whore—get out here! When I get my hands on you, I’ll tear you apart!”

Isadora buried her head in her arms, a sharp ringing in her ears.

The man was pounding so hard that the whole van shook.

If he kept at it much longer, Victor might not even have time to arrive before the windows shattered.

Just then, a Lamborghini screeched to a halt at the curb, engine roaring through the night.

The door swung open.

A tall, sharply dressed man stepped out, his tailored suit hugging his long legs. He strode forward with an air of authority that seemed to silence the darkness itself.

The bald man turned at the sound, his hand frozen mid-strike as he stared at the imposing figure approaching.

Victor’s eyes were jet black, glinting cold and merciless.

He reached the man in two strides and, without a word, twisted his arm at a brutal angle.

The thug barely had time to register what was happening before his arm bent back in a sickening arc. Victor flung him aside like trash.

A crack echoed through the night.

The man froze in place, suddenly unsure. He was nearly six and a half feet tall, built like a linebacker, yet the man in the suit radiated such chilling authority that it made the air heavy and oppressive.

Victor’s gaze hardened as he caught sight of the bruise swelling on Isadora’s forehead.

He had no interest in wasting time with trash like this. His voice was icy. “Want me to break the other arm?”

The threat was enough to shut the man up, though fury still simmered in his eyes.

He shot a glance at the gleaming Lamborghini parked at the curb—worth more than most people would see in a lifetime.

Must be some rich corporate heir, he thought. Guys like this are terrified of bad press.

He tried to muster his courage and spat, “Listen, man, your woman hit my car first. I asked her for two hundred grand, she refused. Now you’ve broken my arm for no reason. You people think you can do whatever you want—doesn’t this city have laws?”

He straightened, summoning what little bravado he had left. “If you don’t want this to get ugly, you’ll pay me a million. That’s my price.”

Victor’s glare sharpened, his voice like steel.

“A million? Not a chance. My woman was terrified because of you. You owe her five million in damages—for emotional distress.”