Madly Yours (Nora Reed) novel Chapter 96

Hudson raised an eyebrow, saying nothing.

The door to the VIP suite was cracked open, guarded by four imposing men in black suits.

They all sported buzz cuts and identical dark attire.

Standing at attention with sharp, vigilant eyes, they were clearly highly trained professionals.

Hudson approached the door, his pace steady, intending to walk right in.

The two guards at the front immediately crossed their arms to block his path, their faces stony.

"Sir, please hold on."

Hudson paused. He lowered his gaze to the two arms barring his way.

His expression was incredibly blank, almost serene.

But that single, quiet glance made the guards' spines instantly go rigid.

"I'm sorry, you can't enter—"

Before the guard could finish his sentence, a dark shadow blurred past Hudson.

Arthur moved so fast it was almost impossible to track.

He slipped right between the two guards, grabbed one man's wrist, and twisted it violently. The guard grunted in pain, his body instinctively bending forward.

Simultaneously, Arthur locked his other hand onto the second guard's shoulder and drove a brutal knee straight into his abdomen.

The second man let out a muffled groan, stumbling backward and crashing into the doorframe.

The remaining two guards snapped out of their shock and lunged forward.

Arthur didn't retreat. He side-stepped a punch, driving his elbow squarely into the first man's face. Blood instantly sprayed from the guard's nose.

The fourth guard managed to draw his stun baton, but Arthur was already sweeping his legs out from under him. With a swift flick of his toe, he kicked the baton sliding far down the hallway.

The entire exchange took less than five seconds.

All four bodyguards were on the ground, clutching their injuries, looking utterly defeated.

Arthur stood in the center, his expression entirely neutral, his breathing perfectly steady, as if he had just done a light stretching routine.

He glanced down at the men groaning on the floor, then silently stepped back into position behind Hudson.

Even seated, he commanded an oppressive, invisible presence.

It wasn't a deliberate show of dominance, but an innate, overwhelming aura of power.

The Fairchild Family of Northampton—a centuries-old dynasty, true elite aristocracy.

And Finnian Fairchild was the most exceptional heir of his generation, universally revered in elite circles.

It wasn't just a polite title; it was genuine fear and respect.

When Hudson walked in, Finnian was holding a teacup.

Hearing the footsteps, he looked up, his gaze locking onto Hudson.

Their eyes clashed in the air.

One was the reigning king of San Francisco's underworld, the other the iron-fisted heir of Northampton.

One was as lethal as a blade, the other as unfathomable as the deep ocean.

For a moment, all the air in the room seemed to freeze.