But my father raised all of us in boxing from the time we could stand. Taught us to defend ourselves, drilled into us that you never start a fight but you damn well know how to end one. The comment Olivier just made about Isabelle counts as the first punch in my book.
I close the distance between us and get in his space, close enough that he has to crane his neck back to meet my eyes, close enough that he can see every ounce of restraint I'm using not to put him on the floor.
"Apologize," I say, and my voice comes out dangerous. "For speaking to her that way. Now."
The swagger drains out of him like someone pulled a plug. Rich guys like Olivier confuse wealth with backbone, mistake never being challenged for being untouchable.
But Isabelle's still standing there, watching, her papers pressed against her chest, and starting a fight in front of her won't help anything. It's not going to make her feel safer, and making her feel safe is the only thing I actually care about right now.
Olivier shifts his weight backward, creating space, then looks past me toward where Isabelle stands. "I'm sorry," he mutters.
Isabelle's eyes widen slightly. She doesn't say anything, just clutches her papers tighter.
I turn away from Olivier and cross to Isabelle in two strides, putting my hand on the small of her back. "Let's go."
We're almost to the door when Olivier calls out behind us, his voice carrying across the empty kitchen. "But Isabelle, I hope you reconsider my offer. I know your father will be very interested to hear about this!"
Isabelle's spine goes rigid under my hand, but she doesn't turn around as I walk her toward the door. The night air hits us, cool and clean after the fluorescent brightness of the kitchen.We step through and I let the door swing shut behind us, cutting off whatever else Olivier might have to say.
The crickets are loud out here, a wall of sound that feels almost soothing after the tense confrontation inside. The path back toward the cottages is lit by those low solar lights that make everything look slightly unreal, shadows stretching long and strange across the stone.
We walk maybe twenty feet in silence, her moving stiffly beside me, before she stops abruptly and turns to face me. The panic I saw earlier has caught up with her now, flooding her eyes as the adrenaline crashes through her system.
"I should go back," she says, the words spilling out fast and uneven. "I need to smooth this over somehow. I just got flustered because he was being so awful, but I should have handled it better. He was threatening to tell my father about us—about the other night. He said he saw us. Alex, you shouldn't have gotten involved like that, I might need to go back and fix this before he?—"
"I'm not worried about the deal with your father," I say, cutting her off gently. "And you don't need to smooth anything over with that asshole.” I glance back at the kitchen door, then at Isabelle. "Wait here for a second, okay?"
She nods slowly, and I can see the well of tears starting in her eyes, the way she's blinking rapidly to keep them from falling. The fact that that piece of shit made her cry makes me want to go back in there and do a lot more than I'm planning to do.
I walk back toward the kitchen and pull the door open, letting it click shut behind me. Olivier is still standing there, leaning against the prep table now. He looks up when I walk in, and something like wariness flickers across his face before the drunken bravado reasserts itself.
"Something you want to say?" he slurs, straightening up slightly. "Coming back for round two?"
I don't give him the chance. I close the distance between usin three strides and drive my fist into his stomach, putting enough behind it that he doubles over with a choked gasp that sounds exactly as satisfying as I hoped it would.
The air rushes out of him in a wheeze and he starts to fold, but I grab the front of his expensive shirt and shove him back against the wall hard enough that he hits the tile with a dull thunk.
"Olivier, don't fucking talk," I say, my voice low and even. "And if you ever approach Isabelle again, if you ever speak to her, if you even look at her, I will fucking end you. Do you understand me?"
He nods frantically, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows hard.
"And before you think about running to her father with whatever you think you saw," I continue, tightening my grip on his shirt until he winces. "You should know I don't give a shit if you do. Go ahead. Tell him. But I think Jean-Pierre is going to be a lot more interested in hearing about how you spoke to his daughter tonight. How you cornered her in an empty kitchen and called her a bitch. You think he's going to care what you saw on a porch after you tell him that?"
His face goes white.
"In fact, if I were you," I say, "I'd be on the first flight back to New York."
His eyes are wide and glassy with fear and alcohol. This is probably the first time in his life anyone's actually hit him. He's spent his whole life buying his way out of consequences and talking his way out of confrontation, and he has no idea what to do now that neither of those things are working.
"You think you're untouchable?" I ask, still holding him against the wall. "That no one's ever going to check you? You're done here. And if I ever hear about you pulling this shit with Isabelle or any other woman, I will destroy you. You fucking get that?"
"Yes," he chokes out.
"Good," I say, and let go of his shirt, stepping back. "Now get the fuck out of here."
He stumbles toward the interior door, the one that leads back into the main building, nearly tripping over his own feet in his hurry to get away from me. One hand goes to his stomach where I hit him, the other bracing against the wall for balance, and he doesn't look back.
I turn and walk back through the exterior door to where I left Isabelle.