Chapter 3

The crowd parted as Sabrina stepped in front of me, her eyes gleaming with malice. She looked from the sculpture to my face, a cruel smile playing on her lips.

"You really have no shame, do you?" she said, her voice loud enough for everyone at the nearby tables to hear. "Coming here, trying to present this... this monstrosity. You don't belong here."

Before I could react, she reached out and, with a swift, violent motion, shoved the sculpture from my hands.

It hit the marble floor with a sickening crash, shattering into a thousand glittering pieces. The delicate sugar trees, the shimmering water, the work of months-all of it was gone in an instant. A collective gasp rippled through the ballroom.

My breath caught in my throat. I stared at the wreckage of my gift, the symbol of my new life, destroyed at my feet.

Brian, Ryan's loyal dog, saw his opening. He lunged at me, his fingers closing around the locket at my neck. "And this fake piece of junk!" he yelled, yanking it hard. The delicate chain snapped, and the locket, my husband's first gift to me, was ripped from my neck.

I screamed, a sound of pure rage and violation. "Give that back!"

Ryan stepped forward then, his face contorted with fury. He saw my scream not as a reaction to being assaulted and robbed, but as a "pathetic act."

"Stop it, Jocelyn!" he snarled. "Stop your pathetic act!"

And then he slapped me.

The sound echoed in the suddenly silent ballroom. His hand struck my cheek with brutal force, snapping my head to the side. The sting was sharp, immediate, but the shock was worse.

He stood over me, sneering, his chest puffed out with a sense of righteous victory. "You know," he said, his voice dripping with contempt, "if you beg me, right here, right now, I might even consider taking you back. After I'm done with Sabrina, of course."

He actually believed I had done all of this for him. He believed the shattered sculpture, the stolen locket, the public humiliation-it was all part of some desperate play to win him back.

The sheer, staggering arrogance of it left me speechless.

But I didn't have to say a thing.

"What in God's name is going on here?"

The voice was like the crack of a whip. It was Mr. Blakely Sr., Andrew's grandfather. He stood at the edge of the scene, his face a mask of cold fury, his eyes promising retribution. The crowd shrank back from him.

At that exact moment, the main doors of the ballroom burst open.

Andrew Blakely strode in, his business trip clearly cut short. He took in the scene in an instant: me, holding my cheek; the shattered remains of my gift on the floor; Ryan, Sabrina, and Brian standing over me like vultures.

His face was like thunder.