Chapter 241

The instant Victoria Ashford lifted her hand, the two hulking men flanking Evelyn Sinclair advanced.

Their movements were perfectly synchronized.

Just as their fingers grazed Evelyn's arm, an icy gust sliced through the air.

Darkness cloaked Evelyn like a second skin.

She twisted away, her body folding into the shadows with feline grace. In a blink, she materialized behind them.

Before they could process her disappearance, she kicked off one stiletto.

Her fingers curled around the shoe's pointed tip, its lethal heel aimed outward.

She struck like lightning—fluid, brutal, unstoppable.

The nearest bodyguard sensed danger too late. He jerked forward, but Evelyn pivoted mid-swing.

Her weapon arced toward Victoria instead.

The razor-sharp heel connected with Victoria's temple.

A choked gasp.

Victoria clutched her skull, nails biting into skin. Warmth trickled down her brow.

Silence.

Then—

A wet, metallic scent filled the air.

The bodyguards froze.

Evelyn didn't.

Her shoe cracked against the second man's skull before he could blink.

Rule one of street fights: Never hesitate.

The remaining bodyguard lunged, seizing Evelyn's wrist.

She let him.

Then stomped her bare heel onto his instep and drove her elbow into his gut.

A guttural scream shattered the night.

Three minutes.

That's all it took to flip the script.

Victoria's voice cut through the darkness, venomous. "Pathetic! Knock her out now!"

Evelyn smirked. Her gaze flicked to the alley's exit.

Run.

Golden light suddenly flooded the path, exposing them all.

The bodyguards flinched.

Victoria didn't. Blood streaked her porcelain face, but her glare never wavered.

Three figures emerged from the glare.

"Nathan Blackwood?" Victoria's composure cracked for half a second before reassembling. "You swore you'd stay out of this."

Nathan stood haloed in light, his broad frame radiating menace. His voice was Arctic frost. "You crossed a line, Victoria."

Tristan Whitmore and Harrison took in the scene with twin expressions of shock.

Evelyn stood barefoot, one shoe dangling from her fingers. Blood dripped from its heel.

Not hers.

Her hair was mussed, her dress wrinkled, yet she looked every inch the queen.

Tristan's lips twitched. "Ms. Ashford... did Evelyn just triple-kill you?"