"The show begins", Summer thought to herself, entirely unfazed by Maria's cheap tricks. As she looked up into the mirror, her reflection revealed something more dangerous—a figure creeping up behind her.
Before the man could even land his attack, Summer swiftly pivoted on her heel and delivered a powerful backward kick straight into his gut. The man staggered, crashing to the floor with a pained grunt.
With her uninjured hand raised slightly, she flicked a strand of hair behind her ear, Summer smirked. "What made you think you could even touch me? Oh, my injured arm, right? Even if I were paralyzed, I'd still send you straight to hell!"
The man growled in frustration, quickly regaining his footing and lunging at her again. This time, he managed to grab both her arms, applying pressure on her injured side. Summer winced, the pain sharp and burning, but her mind remained clear and focused. She swung her head forward, smashing it into the man's nose with force. He stumbled back, blood pouring from his nostrils. Without hesitation, Summer landed a sharp kick to his knee, forcing him down once more.
The man howled in pain, clutching his leg. "Who sent you?" Summer demanded, stepping closer with cold determination in her eyes.
But just as the man was about to answer, there was a loud knock on the washroom door. Summer's attention shifted for a split second—enough time for the man to act. In one swift motion, he pulled out a syringe and jabbed it into her arm.
Summer gasped as a wave of dizziness washed over her, her strength rapidly leaving her body. Her vision blurred, and her legs wobbled beneath her. The man, now grinning, advanced toward her again, ready to take advantage of the situation. But before he could touch her, the door burst open with a deafening crash.
Tristan stood in the doorway, his face a mask of fury. The air around him seemed to darken as his terrifying aura filled the room. He charged at the man, delivering punch after punch, his fists a blur of rage and precision. The man didn't stand a chance. With every blow, Tristan's fury intensified, until the man lay unconscious, bloodied and broken on the floor.
Breathing heavily, Tristan turned his gaze to Summer. His eyes softened with worry as he rushed to her side. He quickly removed his coat, wrapping it around her delicate frame. Summer, her body weak from the drug, leaned into him for support. Yet, despite her dizziness, she managed a weak, playful smile, her lips quirking up. "Even drugged... this scum couldn't win."
Summer, feeling his warmth and strength around her, didn't resist. She was grateful, but in her typical fashion, she had already handled part of the aftermath. Her fingers had discreetly sent a distress message to Wayne, asking him to 'take care' of the unconscious man and gather all necessary information about this sudden restroom rendezvous.
As Tristan placed her gently in the car, his concern was palpable. His usually composed expression was tense with worry. Before he could speak, Summer, her voice weak but teasing, whispered, "Can you inform Mitchell that I'm leaving? Don't tell him what happened… he'll worry too much."
Tristan's jaw clenched at the mention of Mitchell, jealousy flaring up inside him. Even after all this, she was thinking of another man? His grip on the steering wheel tightened as he stifled the bitterness rising in his chest. "I'll let the valet know," he replied, his voice calm but laced with suppressed emotion.
Once the valet was informed, Tristan drove off, casting worried glances at Summer from time to time. His mind raced with a mix of relief, anger, and jealousy. He had saved her, but the fact that she still thought about Mitchell gnawed at him.
Summer, nestled against the car seat, closed her eyes, trying to steady her breathing. She knew she'd be fine, but the adrenaline and the drug had taken a toll on her. Still, she felt safe, knowing Tristan was beside her, even if he didn't know the full extent of her life.
In the quiet of the car, Tristan's hand briefly reached over to gently squeeze hers. It was a silent promise—a vow that as long as he was around, no one would dare harm her again. Summer squeezed back, smiling faintly, her thoughts trailing off as the city lights blurred past them.
As Tristan drove, the atmosphere in the car was laced with unspoken tension, worry, and a subtle tenderness. Glancing at Summer, slumped in her seat, he couldn't help but ask, "Sam, are you feeling okay? Should we go to the hospital?"
Summer, her eyes closed, her voice weak but full of confidence, replied, "No need for the hospital. I know the drug—it'll just make me feel like a drunk person, that's it. I'll sleep it off."
Tristan furrowed his brow, still uneasy. "Are you sure?"
Summer opened her eyes slightly, teasing him with a soft chuckle. "Yes, but you'll have to act like my chaperone. I'll pay you, or better yet, help me hire one."
Tristan didn't hesitate, his voice firm and immediate. "Absolutely not. No one's taking care of you but me." He couldn't bear the thought of anyone else being around her in her vulnerable state. There was a possessiveness in his tone he didn't fully understand but was too consumed by worry to analyze.
The image of her nearly being attacked back at the gathering replayed in his mind, his anger still simmering. If he hadn't noticed how long she had been gone from the ballroom and followed her to the washroom… Tristan clenched the steering wheel tightly, the mere thought of what could have happened tightening his chest. He realized then—Summer was taking up more space in his heart than he had anticipated. This realisation made him excited, anxious but undeniably joyous as well but he couldn't comprehend the reason as this was the first time he was experiencing this kind of emotion for someone he barely knew. He thought, "Why her? How?"