Matthew was still sprawled across the polished floor, stunned and clutching his bleeding nose when the restaurant manager rushed into the room. A few waiters scurried behind him like nervous ducklings, unsure whether to intervene, call security, or simply pretend to fade into the wallpaper.
The manager, a slick, meticulously groomed man in his forties with a pressed charcoal suit and a tie that screamed I take myself very seriously, froze halfway across the room when he saw the scene.
A knocked-over table. A shattered salad bowl. Food splattered like confetti of chaos across the rug.
And Ryan Ashbrook, standing tall and controlled, one hand tucked into the pocket of his trousers like he hadn’t just thrown a punch that would echo through Westwood gossip circles for a year.
The manager s
