The Borrowed Time System

Chapter 4 – No Mercy

The private dining room of the restaurant glowed with soft gold light and the low murmur of forced conversation. White tablecloths stretched the length of the long table. Crystal glasses caught the candlelight. Servers moved with quiet efficiency, refilling wine glasses almost as quickly as they were emptied. On paper, it was a celebration of the company’s quarterly success. In reality, it was another stage for Derrick Stones to remind everyone who held the power.

Lena Brooks sat three seats down from the head of the table, close enough to hear every word Derrick spoke and far enough that she had hoped to remain beneath his direct attention. She wore a simple black dress and kept her posture straight, expression carefully neutral. Around her, employees laughed too loudly at jokes that weren’t funny and raised glasses to toasts that tasted like obligation.

Derrick occupied the head of the table like a throne. He had removed his jacket. His tie was loosened just enough to look relaxed while still remaining in control. A glass of red wine sat near his hand, never empty for long. His gray eyes moved constantly—cataloguing who avoided his gaze, who tried too hard to please, who already looked defeated by the mandatory attendance.

“To results,” he said, lifting his glass for the third toast of the evening. “And to the people who understand that feelings don’t pay salaries.”

A scattered chorus of “hear, hear” followed. Most of it was empty. Lena did not raise her glass.

As the main course arrived, the alcohol began to loosen the room. Conversations grew louder. Laughter sharpened. Derrick’s comments grew more personal and less restrained. He praised one junior analyst with exaggerated warmth, then turned the same smile on another and asked, loud enough for half the table to hear, whether they planned to improve before the next round of performance cuts.

Emily laughed nervously. Marcus stared at his plate. Someone near the far end muttered that they should have called in sick.

Lena kept her eyes on her food and tried to ignore the weight of Derrick’s occasional glances. She had already confronted him twice that week. She had no desire for a third round in front of an audience and an open bar.

She did not get the choice.

Halfway through the entrée, Derrick’s attention settled on her with deliberate focus.

“Our idealistic intern,” he said, voice carrying easily over the table. “Miss Brooks. You’ve been unusually quiet tonight. After all those lectures about fear and leadership this week, I expected a speech.”

Several heads turned. The table quieted in the way it always did when Derrick singled someone out.

Lena met his eyes. “I didn’t realize the evening required one.”

“Everything requires performance,” Derrick replied, smiling. The smile did not reach his eyes. “Tell the table—after nearly a week in the real world, do you still believe fear is a poor motivator?”

The question was a trap and everyone knew it. Lena felt the familiar anger rise, but she kept her voice steady.

“Yes. I do.”

A few people shifted uncomfortably. Derrick’s smile widened.

“Admirable. Misguided, but admirable. We’ll see how long the idealism lasts once the consequences become more personal.”

He drank. The conversation limped forward, but the damage was done. For the rest of the main course, Derrick’s comments kept circling back to her—light on the surface, edged underneath. He asked about her university grades. He asked whether she thought unpaid overtime built character. He asked, with mock curiosity, how long she expected to survive if she continued challenging management so openly.

Each remark was delivered with the same calm, slightly drunken amusement. Each one made the people around her look away.

By the time dessert arrived, Lena’s jaw ached from holding her silence. The room felt too warm. The wine on Derrick’s breath when he leaned closer to speak to the person beside him carried across the table. His eyes kept returning to her with a focus that no longer felt purely professional.

When the formal portion of the evening finally loosened and people began standing in small groups near the bar, Lena rose and slipped toward the exit. She needed air. She needed distance from the performance and the man who treated power like entertainment.

The night outside was warm and humid. The street was relatively quiet. She stepped a few paces from the entrance, breathing deeply, trying to steady the anger and unease that had been building all week.

She did not hear the restaurant door open behind her until Derrick’s voice, low and roughened by wine, reached her.

“Running away already, Miss Brooks?”

Lena turned. He stood a short distance away, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a nearly empty glass. The cold smile was back, but something heavier sat behind it now—something that made the air between them feel thinner.

“I needed air,” she said carefully.

“Of course you did.” He took a step closer. “You’ve spent the entire week challenging me. Publicly. Privately. It’s almost impressive. Most people learn faster.”

“I’m not most people.”

“No,” Derrick agreed, and the word sounded like a warning. “You’re not.”

He moved another step. The easy arrogance of the office had shifted into something more personal and far more dangerous. The scent of wine and expensive cologne reached her. His eyes dropped, just for a moment, in a way that had nothing to do with professional evaluation.

Lena’s pulse climbed. She took a deliberate step back. “Mr. Stones. You’ve had too much to drink. You should go back inside.”

“And you’re still giving me orders.” His voice dropped further. “I don’t like that.”

The night suddenly felt too quiet. Inside the restaurant, laughter rose and fell, muffled by the walls. Out here, there were no witnesses close enough to intervene.

Lena’s hand tightened around the small clutch she carried. She had no weapon. No allies nearby. Only the growing certainty that the man in front of her had crossed a line she had only suspected existed—and that he intended to make sure she understood exactly how little power she truly had.

Derrick took one more step.

The space between them disappeared.

The night air felt too thick.

Lena Brooks stood a few paces from the restaurant entrance, the warm humidity of the evening pressing against her skin. Behind her, the muffled sounds of the appreciation dinner continued—laughter, clinking glasses, the low drone of forced conversation. In front of her, Derrick Stones closed the remaining distance with the slow certainty of a man who had never been refused.

“Mr. Stones,” Lena said, keeping her voice as steady as she could. “You’re drunk. Go back inside.”

He smiled. The expression that had unsettled her all week now carried something heavier, something that made her pulse hammer in her throat.

“I’ve been watching you,” he said, the words slightly slurred but still sharp. “All week. Talking back. Looking me in the eye like you’re my equal. Most interns learn their place by the second day.”

“I know my place,” Lena replied. “It’s not under your control.”

Derrick’s eyes darkened. He stepped closer. The scent of red wine and expensive cologne filled the space between them. One hand reached out and closed around her upper arm—not hard enough to bruise yet, but firm enough to stop her from simply walking away.

“Let go of me.”

“Or what?” he asked, almost curious. “You’ll report me? To whom? I own the operations of this company. One word from me and your internship ends. Your university recommendation disappears. Your future in this industry becomes a cautionary story.”

Lena tried to pull her arm free. His grip tightened.

“You’re hurting me.”

“Then stop fighting.” His voice dropped lower. He moved in, using his body to crowd her toward the side of the building where the light from the entrance barely reached. “You’ve spent the week acting like you’re untouchable. You’re not. No one is.”

Panic flared hot and sharp in Lena’s chest. She shoved at his shoulder with her free hand. “Get off me!”

Derrick barely swayed. The wine had slowed him, but it had also removed whatever thin restraint he usually maintained in public. His other hand came up, attempting to catch her wrist. For a moment they struggled in the shadowed space beside the restaurant—her determination against his size and alcohol-fueled insistence.

“Stop,” she said, louder now. “I mean it.”

He laughed under his breath, the sound ugly. “You don’t give the orders here.”

Something in Lena snapped.

Her eyes swept the immediate area. A small service table near the wall held discarded glasses and an open bottle of red wine that a server had left during a brief break. Without allowing herself time to second-guess, she reached out, grabbed the bottle by the neck, and swung it with every ounce of strength and fear she possessed.

CRACK.

The thick glass connected with the side of Derrick’s head just above his temple. The bottle shattered on impact. Wine and blood sprayed across his face and the front of his white shirt. Shards glittered as they fell to the pavement.

Derrick staggered sideways, eyes wide with shock. One hand flew to the wound. Blood ran quickly between his fingers, bright under the distant streetlight.

“You… crazy…” he started, voice thick.

He took one unsteady step toward her.

Lena still held the broken neck of the bottle, chest heaving, terror and adrenaline roaring in her ears. “Stay away from me.”

Derrick’s legs buckled.

He collapsed forward, hitting the pavement hard. The remaining wine from the shattered bottle pooled with the blood spreading beneath his head. His body twitched once, then went still.

For a frozen second the only sound was Lena’s ragged breathing and the distant traffic of a city that had not noticed.

Then the restaurant door opened. A server stepped out with a tray, saw the scene, and dropped everything with a crash.

“Help!” someone shouted. “Someone call an ambulance!”

Footsteps and voices poured out of the building. Employees who had spent the evening pretending to celebrate now stared in horror at their boss lying in a spreading pool of red. Marcus reached Lena first, carefully taking the broken glass from her trembling hand.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

Lena couldn’t answer. Her eyes remained locked on Derrick’s unmoving form. Blood matted his dark hair. His face was slack. For the first time since she had met him, he looked entirely powerless.

Sirens rose in the distance.

Paramedics arrived within minutes. They worked quickly, voices clipped and professional. One of them checked for a pulse, then began chest compressions when the rhythm proved too weak. Another fitted an oxygen mask. Blood pressure numbers were called out in tense tones.

“He lost consciousness. Significant head trauma. Possible intracranial bleeding. We need to move now.”

Lena stood backed against the wall, arms wrapped around herself, as they loaded Derrick onto a stretcher. His face was pale under the blood. One of the paramedics muttered that they had almost lost the pulse at the scene.

As the ambulance doors closed and the vehicle pulled away with lights flashing, the full weight of what had just happened settled over the sidewalk.

Lena Brooks had struck her boss with a wine bottle.

And Derrick Stones— the man everyone feared—might already be dying.