Chapter 6

Crockett didn't wait for an answer. He turned and pulled her, dragging her through the stunned, silent crowd. Her heels scraped against the floor as she struggled to keep her footing.

She didn't scream or fight. She knew it would be useless, that it would only make her look hysterical. She let him pull her down a short hallway, away from the prying eyes of the gallery.

He found a door marked 'Private' and kicked it open, shoving her inside.

Erin stumbled, catching herself on the arm of a plush velvet sofa. The champagne in her glass sloshed but didn't spill.

Crockett slammed the door shut and twisted the lock. The click echoed in the small, opulent room, sealing them inside. He advanced on her, his face dark with fury.

"Having fun, are we?" he sneered, his voice dripping with venom. "Spending my money, flirting with every boy in the room. Do you have any idea the kind of embarrassment you've caused?"

Erin straightened up, setting her champagne flute down on a side table. She faced him, her chin held high. "Every dollar I spent is marital property. And as for embarrassment, I think you cornered the market on that when you started sleeping with your mistress."

The word 'mistress' hung in the air, ugly and undeniable. It stripped away his last defense.

"I told you," he roared, taking another step closer, "Delila is sick! It's not the same thing!"

"Isn't it?" A dry, mirthless laugh escaped her. "What's the difference, Crockett? That she's a better actress than I was? Or that her feigned helplessness feeds your pathetic ego?"

Every word was a perfectly aimed dart, striking at the heart of his self-delusion.

He was done talking. He was done with words. He would show her who was in control. He would re-establish the order of things.

He lunged forward, his hand reaching not for her wrist this time, but for her face. He was going to kiss her. He was going to crush her mouth under his, a brutal punishment for her insolence, a reassertion of his ownership. It was a move that had always worked, always reduced her to trembling submission.

But just as his fingers brushed her cheek, she moved.

In one swift, fluid motion, she picked up the champagne flute she had just set down and flung its contents directly at his chest.

The cold, bubbly liquid splashed across the front of his expensive Tom Ford suit, soaking the fine wool and the crisp white shirt beneath.

Time seemed to stop.

Crockett froze, his hand still outstretched, his eyes wide with disbelief. He looked down at the dark, spreading stain on his chest, at the rivulets of champagne dripping onto the Persian rug.

She wouldn't. She couldn't.

He slowly raised his head, his eyes meeting hers. The fury in them was no longer controlled. It was a wild, blazing inferno.

"Erin. Farrell." He ground out her name, each syllable a promise of retribution.

She placed the now-empty glass back on the table with a soft, deliberate click. She met his murderous gaze without a trace of fear.

"Now," she said, her voice as cool and crisp as the champagne had been. "Can we talk like adults?"

She had used his own aggression against him, creating a moment of shock that shattered his physical advance and seized the upper hand.

Crockett wiped a drop of champagne from his jaw, his eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. He had to break her. Tonight. If he didn't reassert his dominance now, he felt with a terrifying certainty that he would lose it forever.

He took a single, deliberate step towards her. The air in the small room became heavy, charged, and ready to explode.