He Called Her Too Fat for Love in Front of Everyone, but the Curvy Waitress Became the Only Woman Who Could Save Him

The freezing rain returned at dusk, turning the rusted corrugated iron of Warehouse 4 into a drum of relentless, icy water.

Inside, Catherine sat strapped to the steel chair, her hands zip-tied tightly behind her back. Vincent Marlow sat at a folding table twenty feet away, sipping black coffee from a thermos, while six heavily armed mercenaries patrolled the perimeter.

“He won't come alone, you know,” Catherine said, spitting blood onto the concrete. “Dominic Vale isn't an idiot.”

Marlow looked up, smiling thinly. “You don't understand men like Dominic, my dear. He was a machine until you showed up. Cold. Calculating. Unbeatable. But love makes monsters weak. He will come. And he will die right in front of you.”

“You think I’m his weakness?” Catherine scoffed, her voice steady and venomous. “You really are blind, Marlow.”

Behind her back, Catherine hadn't been waiting for rescue.

Her fingers had found a jagged edge of rusted steel on the back of the industrial chair. For forty minutes, through agonizing friction, she had been sawing the heavy plastic zip-ties against the metal spur.

*Crack.*

The plastic gave way. Catherine kept her hands behind her back, remaining perfectly still, her muscles coiling like a sprung trap.

The warehouse doors creaked open.

A single silhouette stepped through the rain into the dim yellow sodium lights.

Dominic Vale.

He wore no coat. He carried a heavy leather briefcase in his left hand, and his right hand was held empty in the air. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead by the storm, and his eyes were hollow, dead, and lethal.

“Dominic!” Catherine cried out.

“Be quiet, Catherine,” Dominic said softly, his voice echoing in the vast, hollow space. He set the briefcase down on the wet concrete. “The keys are inside, Marlow. Every holding company. Every offshore routing number. Let her go.”

Marlow stood, chuckling. “You really gave it all up for a fat waitress. Unbelievable.”

Marlow signaled to two of his men. “Kill him.”

Before the mercenaries could raise their rifles, Dominic dropped into a roll, drawing a suppressed Glock from the small of his back.

*Pop. Pop.*

Two rounds found their marks. The two mercenaries collapsed instantly.

Chaos erupted.

The remaining four men opened fire, bullets chewing into the concrete where Dominic dove behind a stack of industrial crates.

Marlow cursed, drawing his revolver, aiming directly at Dominic’s cover.

He never saw Catherine coming.

Catherine exploded out of the chair. With a roar of pure, unadulterated fury, she grabbed the heavy steel folding chair and swung it with the full momentum of her body directly into the back of Marlow’s neck.

The blow landed with a sickening crack.

Marlow was hurled forward across the concrete, his gun skittering across the floor into the shadows. He rolled onto his back, groaning, his nose shattered, spitting teeth.

“I told you,” Catherine snarled, towering over him, her chest heaving, “I’m not his weakness!”

From the catwalk above, the last mercenary raised an assault rifle, lining up Catherine’s back.

“Catherine!” Dominic screamed.

Dominic broke from cover, throwing himself across the open concrete. He didn't fire; he had no angle. He simply vaulted his body over hers, taking the impact of the mercenary's burst directly across his back and shoulder.

Blood sprayed across Catherine’s face.

Dominic collapsed onto her, his weight pinning her to the floor, his breath hitching in a wet, ragged gasp.

At that exact moment, the warehouse’s skylights exploded.

Nico and twelve Vale enforcers rappelled through the shattered glass on tactical ropes, automatic fire cutting through the darkness with deafening authority. The remaining mercenaries were neutralized in seconds.

Silence descended upon Warehouse 4, broken only by the sound of falling glass and Catherine’s desperate sobs.

“Dominic! No, no, no!” Catherine screamed, rolling him onto his back.

He had taken two rounds—one through his shoulder, one low in his flank. His blood was soaking through his shirt, pooling beneath them on the cold floor.

“Catherine...” Dominic whispered, his eyelids fluttering. His bloodied hand came up, weakly seeking her face.

“I’ve got you,” she wept, ripping off the hem of her shirt to pack the wounds, pressing down with all her weight. “Stay with me, Dominic! You don't get to die on me now! Don't you dare leave me!”

Dominic looked up at her through the haze of death, a faint, beautiful smile touching his lips.