Chapter 7

He lunged, grabbing her by the shoulders and slamming her back against the wall. The impact jarred her teeth, and a flash of pain shot through her spine.

"You think this is a game?" he snarled, his face inches from hers. His breath was hot, smelling of whiskey and rage. "You think you can spend a little money, charm a few starving artists, and that makes you my equal?"

His fingers dug into her arms, bruising her. He used his other hand to grip her chin, forcing her head up, forcing her to look at him.

"Let me be clear, Erin. Everything you are, everything you have, is because of me. The name. The status. The clothes on your back. Without me, you are nothing."

He spat the words at her, trying to dismantle her, to tear down this new, defiant woman and find the weak, pliable one he knew.

Her chin ached under his grip, but her eyes held his. They were clear, steady, and filled with an unnerving, pitying contempt.

Her lack of fear was the final straw. He lowered his head, his mouth aiming for hers, ready to devour her protests, to silence her with a kiss that was not about passion, but about power.

His lips were a hair's breadth from hers when she spoke, her voice quiet but carrying the force of a physical blow.

"You disgust me, Crockett."

The words, spoken so softly, hit him harder than a slap. He recoiled as if burned.

He stared at her, his mind struggling to process it. The woman who had once looked at him with pure adoration, who had lived for his approval, was looking at him now as if he were something she'd scraped off her shoe.

In that moment of his stunned hesitation, she pressed her advantage.

"Imagine," she continued, her voice still dangerously calm, "what would happen if I opened that door right now. If everyone out there saw the CEO of Winters Consolidated, disheveled and smelling of cheap champagne, pinning his wife against a wall."

She let that image sink in before delivering the killing blow.

"Or maybe I'll just call Page Six at the New York Post. I can see the headline now: 'Billionaire Crockett Winters in Drunken Rage at Charity Gala, Domestic Abuse Allegations Swirl.'"

Page Six. The two words were a bucket of ice water, extinguishing the fire of his rage.

His mind, a finely tuned machine for calculating risk and reward, instantly assessed the fallout. The stock price. The board of directors. The family's reputation.

He knew she wasn't bluffing. The woman standing before him tonight was a stranger, capable of anything.

Slowly, deliberately, he released his grip on her chin, then her shoulders. He took a step back, putting space between them. He looked at her, truly looked at her, as if for the first time. This wasn't his wife. This was an opponent.

Erin smoothed the front of her dress, her movements graceful and unhurried. She had won. For now.

"We're going home," Crockett said, his voice a hoarse, defeated rasp. He couldn't win here. Not in this public space where she held all the cards.

Erin didn't argue. The point had been made.

She walked to the door and placed her hand on the handle. She paused and looked back at him, at his ruined suit and his face pale with fury and humiliation.

"Crockett," she said, her voice flat. "Don't ever try to use force on me again. That part of our marriage is over."

She opened the door and walked out, leaving him alone in the wreckage.

Crockett stared at his reflection in the ornate mirror on the wall. He saw the wet stain on his shirt, the wildness in his eyes. With a guttural roar of frustration, he slammed his fist into the wall.

He was losing control. And he hated it more than anything in the world.