When people found themselves in tense situations, moments that cracked open fear, anger, or a choking rush of emotion, each person reacted in a different way. Some froze, some raged, some fled. Sheri’s reaction was the kind that betrayed a lack of experience with violence: her body shut down and her mind stuttered. She could feel Anton’s grip at the fabric of her shirt, the cloth stretched across the reception desk as he hauled her forward.
The rawness of it registered in every taut line across her shoulders. He was not a weak man; Anton trained his body with some regularity and carried himself like someone who believed physical force could solve problems. He had recently been rubbing shoulders with people who ranked high in the local hierarchy of strength and influence, and that confidence hardened him.
Sheri had never been a fighter. She had almost no history of physical altercations, and in this moment, adrenaline did something strange to her: it did not sharpen her, it numbed her. She could not find a foothold for resistance.
It was as if her limbs had gone through a fog and shut down, her muscles refusing to respond to the commands her mind was giving them. All she could do was feel the panic rising in her chest and the heat of humiliation crawling up her neck.
"Please... please... don’t do this," she whispered. The words came out small, wet at the edges. Tears tracked down her face and fell onto the cotton of her blouse. Her voice trembled; each syllable was a plea that did nothing to slow Anton’s momentum.
Anton did not relent. His anger seemed to have a slow-burning source that no simple apology could douse. Last time he had shown up at this building he had been on the receiving end of a punch, an event that had branded itself into his pride, and now he wanted retribution.
The old grievance tightened his jaw and narrowed his vision until all he could see was target and heat. He drew her closer, the desk a shallow barrier between them, and lifted a fist, ready to strike. "Say SOMETHING!!" he shouted, voice rough with rage as he drew back for a blow.
The sound that interrupted him was small, ordinary: the ding of the elevator. It sliced through the charged air and shifted Anton’s focus. The elevator doors slid apart, and a red-headed man stepped out, framed by the stainless steel opening.
Max walked forward from the elevator with a presence that made the room take notice; even in the brief instant before Anton registered who it was, the tension in the reception room rebalanced. Max’s eyes were hard, an unmistakable fury burning there, and his hands were clenched into fists at his sides. He did not hesitate.
"Let go of her," Max said, voice sharp and low. The command was simple, but he said it as if it were an order that should have been obeyed without discussion.
For a blink, Anton’s eyes flicked to Sheri’s face, seeing the terror there may have cracked something in him. He released his grip, but his anger redirected instantly. How dare this, this supposed intern, give him directives? The very thought of Max, flippant and young and carrying the Stern name, daring to intervene inflamed him further. He sneered, the contempt heavy in his tone. "Hey, you’re just an intern. I know the Stern family will do nothing; they’ve dropped everything to do with you, so your family name means nothing. And do you really think the Billion Bloodline would drop a deal with us if I give you a beating!"
Max walked around the desk until he stood within a measured, dangerous distance from Anton. Sheri tried to speak, voice shaking but determined. "Max, don’t do anything. You don’t have to!" she called. "I’m fine. I’m not hurt." But her words were fragile, she still trembled, and the tear that had slid down her cheek had left a damp trail on her collar. For Sheri it was the first, raw day on the job, and she had not expected to be manhandled in front of the reception. She had not expected to be a focal point for another man’s temper.
Max’s jaw set. The sight of her there, frightened and trembling, tightened something in him, an anger of his own, but with a colder edge. ’It was her first day,’ his thoughts said without the courtesy of softness. ’And this man cannot even behave.’ He moved forward until he was in range. Anton, driven by a mixture of fury and the primitive fear that comes when one’s bravado is threatened, threw the first strike. The movement was more reflex than plan; his previous failure to back words with force burned at him, and the punch was launched as though taking it might restore his authority.
But Anton missed. Max’s head moved aside with practiced economy, and as Anton’s arm carried him forward, Max delivered a heavy blow into his stomach, precise, powerful, designed to break the wind from him. The impact folded Anton over; he doubled, gasping as the air left his lungs. Before he could find purchase, Max’s fingers were in the back of his hair, hauling his head up like a leash.
"Didn’t we tell you that you are not allowed in this building? If you decided to stay, we would remove you by force!" Max said, his voice controlled but edged with warning.
He swung upward from below and bashed his hand into Anton’s face. There was a sickening sound of bone against bone: the crack of a nose giving way. Anton’s head jerked; blood welled at his nostrils. He howled, stumbling under the force of the hit, but Max held him fast, keeping him from thrashing wildly.
Anton’s body writhed in pain, and for the space of a second the astonishment of his position, sprawled and humiliated on the polished floor outside the reception doors, registered. Max did not linger. He dragged Anton by the head toward the automatic doors; they parted obediently, and Max flung Anton’s body out of the building with the same brusque efficiency of someone clearing parcels from a doorway.
The man hit the pavement and rolled, stunned and gasping, while Max had already turned and stepped back inside as if the mess outside was no longer his to watch.
Anton rose slowly to his feet, lips split and nose already beginning to bruise into a dark, angry bloom. For all the indignity of his unceremonious ejection, his eyes shone with a new, furious light: rage that promised the matter was not settled.
He spat a word between clenched teeth as he staggered away from the threshold, voice hoarse but clear even at distance. "This... this is the second time this place has made a fool of me. I don’t care if we’re partners or not... you will pay for this... Max Stern!"