The Unwanted Husband Returns To The Top

The punch was a clumsy, telegraphed swing. For Connor, time seemed to slow down. He saw the flex of Brody's shoulder, the tightening of his jaw, the stupid, brutish confidence in his eyes. He moved. It wasn't a dodge. It was an interception. His hand shot out, a blur of motion, and clamped around Brody's wrist before the punch was even halfway to its target. Brody's eyes widened. He felt as if his arm had been caught in a hydraulic press. A searing pain shot up to his shoulder. On the dozens of phone screens back at the wedding, the viewers gasped. They saw the punch stop, but they couldn't process how. Connor applied a fraction of his strength. A simple, practiced twist of the wrist. CRACK. The sound was sickeningly loud in the quiet cafe. Brody let out a high-pitched scream, a sound of pure agony. The phone he was using to stream clattered to the floor, but the camera landed facing up, capturing the brutal ballet that followed. Connor didn't hesitate. Pivoting on his good leg, he drove his foot into Brody's stomach. The big man folded like a cheap suit, the air exploding from his lungs as he flew backward, crashing over a table and landing in a heap of shattered ceramic and spilled sugar. One of Brody's friends tried to be a hero, lunging at Connor from behind. Without turning, Connor snapped his elbow back. It connected perfectly with the man's jaw. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he crumpled to the floor, out cold. The remaining two friends froze, their faces masks of terror. The "easy target" had turned into a nightmare. The entire confrontation had lasted less than ten seconds. Back at the Von Merri, the lounge was utterly silent. Jett's smug smile was frozen on his face, a grotesque mask of disbelief. Genevieve stared at the screen, her hand covering her mouth. The man dismantling Brody's crew with cold, efficient violence was a stranger to her. The quiet, passive husband she had despised for three years had never existed. This was someone else. Someone terrifying. In the cafe, Connor walked over to the whimpering Brody. He calmly picked up the fallen phone. He turned the camera on himself. His face was a blank canvas, his eyes two chips of ice. He looked directly into the lens, as if staring into the soul of every single person watching. "The game is over," he said, his voice low and steady, carrying an authority that was absolute. "Now, it's my turn." He ended the livestream. The silence in the wedding lounge shattered. An uproar of shocked and furious voices erupted. "How dare he!" Eleonora Barlowe, having been told what happened, was trembling with rage. Jett's face was a thundercloud of fury and humiliation. His perfect plan had just blown up in his face, broadcast live to all his peers. Gregory Tanner, the Uber manager, saw a clip of the video sent by a subordinate. A cold sweat broke out on his skin. This Connor was not some random driver. He was dangerous. To cover his own ass and prove his loyalty to Maddox, he had to act. He pulled up Connor's file on his laptop. With a few keystrokes, he permanently deactivated the account. Reason for termination: "Violent assault against a member of the public." He was fired. Blacklisted. Connor tossed the phone aside. He looked at the terrified cafe manager. He pulled a sleek, black credit card from his wallet-a card with no name and no limit-and placed it on the counter. It was the emergency card his grandfather had left him, a last resort sealed in an envelope with a single instruction: 'Only when the test is over.' The seal was now broken. "For the damages," he said calmly. "And call an ambulance." He straightened his collar, smoothed his simple jacket, and walked out of the cafe as if nothing had happened. His phone rang. The caller ID read Eleonora Barlowe. He declined the call. Then he blocked the number.