Chapter 2

The crash of the mahogany door against the wall echoed through the VIP suite, instantly drowning out the murmurs. Every head in the room snapped toward the entrance.

Fiona crossed the threshold, her face a picture of icy composure. The harsh spotlights from the suite's ceiling beat down on her, highlighting the sharp angles of her jaw and the absolute void of emotion in her eyes.

Kevon jumped in his leather seat. The crystal tumbler in his hand jerked, sending a splash of amber whiskey splashing onto the thigh of his tailored trousers. His eyes widened, a flicker of genuine panic crossing his features before he could mask it.

Beside him, Preston shifted awkwardly on the sofa. He cleared his throat, his body angling to block the small cake box on the table behind him-a box with "Kayla" written in elegant script on the ribbon.

Fiona ignored Preston's clumsy attempt at concealment. She walked straight toward the seating area, her heels striking the exposed wooden floor around the carpet with a sharp, rhythmic click. Click. Click. Click.

Kevon recovered quickly, his features rearranging into his usual expression of arrogant disdain. He straightened his tie-a nervous habit he thought made him look authoritative. "What the hell are you doing here? Don't you know how to knock?"

Fiona stopped two feet in front of him. She looked down at him, her gaze so devoid of warmth that it felt like a physical chill. She didn't answer his question.

"A presentable, obedient PR billboard," she repeated, her voice perfectly level, echoing his exact words back at him.

The temperature in the suite seemed to drop ten degrees. Lachlan and the other men exchanged uneasy glances, slowly setting their drinks down on the glass table, trying to make themselves as small as possible.

Kevon's face flushed a deep, mottled red. He scrambled to his feet, using his height to try and loom over her. "You were eavesdropping? Are you stalking me now?"

"It doesn't take a stalker to hear you when you're shouting your business to the whole room," Fiona said, her tone laced with a venomous calm. "You talk about me like I'm a burden, yet you've had no problem spending the money my designs brought in."

"You suffocate me!" Kevon roared, his pride stung by her lack of tears. "You're always hovering, always trying to control every aspect of my life. You drove me to this. If you weren't so cold, maybe I wouldn't need someone like Kayla to remind me what warmth is."

Fiona let out a short, harsh laugh. It was a sound completely devoid of humor. "That's a neat trick. You cheat, and somehow it's my fault because I'm too cold. You're pathetic."

Kevon's hands balled into fists at his sides. He was losing face in front of his friends, and that was the one thing he couldn't stand. He leaned in, his eyes narrowing. "You want to talk about being pathetic? Let's talk about that night in Brooklyn."

Fiona's expression didn't change, but a muscle in her jaw twitched.

"You ran," Kevon spat, his voice rising. "When that guy pulled a knife, you ran like a coward. Kayla stepped in front of you. She took that blade for you. And what did you do? You went crying to the family, trying to ruin her reputation out of pure jealousy."

The memory flashed behind Fiona's eyes-the dark alley, the glint of steel, Kayla's sudden smirk before the knife appeared. The cold, hard truth of that night was a stark contrast to the fairy tale Kevon had constructed.

"Kayla didn't step in front of me," Fiona said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "She led me into that blind spot. There were no cameras, Kevon. She set it up."

"Liar!" Kevon shouted, his face contorting with rage. He waved his arm dismissively. "I saw the scar on her arm! I saw her tears! You're just trying to smear her because you know you can't compete with a genuinely good person."

Preston stood up, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "Guys, come on. It's your birthday, Kev. Let's not drag up ancient history. Have a drink."

Fiona turned her head slowly to look at Preston. The sheer force of her glare made him take an involuntary step backward, his hands dropping to his sides.

She looked back at Kevon. The anger was still there, but it was rapidly being replaced by a profound sense of exhaustion. Looking at him, at his blind, arrogant certainty, she realized that arguing with him was like trying to explain color to someone born blind. He didn't want the truth; he wanted his victim narrative.

Kevon misread her silence. A smug smile crept back onto his face. "Look, I get it. You're upset. But I'm willing to be the bigger person. Apologize to Kayla, and we can put this behind us. The wedding is still on."

He paused, letting the words sink in before delivering the final insult. "She can stay on as my personal assistant. You'll just have to learn to share the space. It's a generous offer."

Fiona's stomach roiled. The nausea was physical, a wave of revulsion that washed over her. She stared at him, this man she had almost married, and felt nothing but disgust.

She reached into her clutch and pulled out the heavy, metal black credit card she used for Baxter family expenses. She held it between her index and middle finger, her arm drawn back.

With a sharp, whipping motion, she flicked her wrist. The black card flew through the air, its solid metal edge catching the light before it struck Kevon square across the cheek.

A sharp crack echoed in the room, and a vivid red welt immediately bloomed on his skin. The card clattered to the floor, landing face-up on the expensive rug.

Kevon clutched his face, his eyes wide with shock. He stared at her as if she had suddenly grown a second head.

Fiona lifted her chin, looking down her nose at him with absolute authority. "The game is over, Kevon. I quit."

She didn't wait for a response. She pivoted on her heel, her posture rigid, and walked toward the door, leaving the silence of the room to swallow the sound of her departure.