The bass thrummed through my chest, vibrating through my very bones. The dancer, Liam, was laughing, his arm draped casually around my waist. The martini had done its job – dulled the edges of the pain, silenced the incessant whispers of betrayal. My phone vibrated again, a persistent buzz against my skin. I glanced at it. Drake. I rolled my eyes and ignored it again. He could call all he wanted. I wasn't going back. Not ever.

"Chelsie, your phone," Liam said, his voice a playful murmur. "Someone's very eager."

"Let them be," I replied, pulling him closer. "They'll get over it."

But the phone continued to ring. And then, a text message. I usually ignored Drake's texts, but something compelled me to glance at it. It was from him. And it said, "Don't bother lying about your location. I can hear the music from your rooftop. And your laughter."

My heart pounded, a sudden, cold dread washing over me. No. It couldn't be. I spun around, my gaze sweeping the crowded bar. My eyes darted from face to face, searching, fearing. And then I saw him.

He was standing by the entrance, a dark, formidable silhouette against the neon city lights. His eyes, cold and unwavering, found mine. Drake Knox. He looked like a predator who had just stalked his prey. My breath caught in my throat. How? How did he know?

He began to move, a slow, deliberate stride through the throng of revelers. A hush fell over the crowd as he passed, like a wave of silent awe. People instinctively parted ways, sensing the dangerous aura that surrounded him. His gaze never left mine. It was a suffocating, terrifying stare that promised retribution.

"Everyone out," a deep voice boomed. His head of security, a mountain of a man, was already clearing the bar. "The party's over."

My friends, who had been laughing with me moments before, exchanged nervous glances. Lexi, ever the brave one, started to protest, but one look from Drake's security froze her. They melted away, leaving me standing alone, exposed, in the suddenly cavernous space. Liam, bless his innocent heart, tried to hold his ground, a bewildered look on his face. "Hey, what's going on?"

Drake reached us, his eyes burning into mine. He didn't even spare Liam a glance. He simply grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my skin, a possessive grip that sent a shiver down my spine. "We're leaving," he stated, his voice low and dangerous.

I yanked my arm away. "I'm not going anywhere with you!" I snapped, my defiance flaring back to life. "You have no right!"

His eyes narrowed further. "Right?" he scoffed, the word dripping with disdain. "You're my wife, Chelsie. And you're making a spectacle of yourself." He gestured vaguely at the empty bottles, the discarded shot glasses. "Is this what freedom looks like to you? Drowning your sorrows in cheap liquor and flirting with boys barely out of college?"

My blood boiled. "And what does it look like to you, Drake?" I shot back, my voice trembling with suppressed rage. "Running off to comfort your dying ex-girlfriend while your wife is left to bleed in a hotel lobby? Is that what loyalty looks like?"

His jaw tightened. He took a step closer, his presence overwhelming. "Don't push me, Chelsie," he warned, his voice a low growl. "You don't want to see what happens when you push me too far."

I recoiled, but my pride wouldn't let me back down. "Or what?" I challenged, my chin held high. "Will you run off to Julia again? Is that your ultimate threat?"

He stared at me, his eyes unreadable, then suddenly reached out, his hand cupping my cheek. His thumb brushed over my skin, a soft, tender touch that sent conflicting signals through me. "Chelsie," he murmured, his voice softening, "I hate seeing you like this. Lost. Hurt."

His touch, his voice, they were a dangerous lure. A treacherous part of me wanted to lean into it, to let him soothe the pain. But the image of him walking past my hospital room, of him holding Julia, flashed in my mind. No. I wouldn't fall for it again. I slapped his hand away, my eyes blazing. "Don't pretend you care, Drake," I spat. "You lost that right when you chose her over me."

His expression hardened, the tenderness vanishing, replaced by a cold fury. He didn't say anything, just stared at me, his gaze slowly dropping to the small, ornate clutch I was holding. "What's in there, Chelsie?" he asked, his voice deceptively calm.

My heart hammered. He was too smart. Too observant. He saw everything. "Nothing," I lied, clutching it tighter.

He simply extended his hand. "Give it to me." It wasn't a request. It was an order.

I hesitated, then, with a defiant glare, I pulled out a thick envelope. "You want to know what's in here?" I challenged, my voice shaking slightly. "Fine. Here you go. Your ticket to true freedom, Drake." I shoved the envelope into his hand. "Divorce papers. Signed. All you have to do is put your glorious Wall Street Reaper signature on the dotted line."

He looked at the envelope, then at me, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. A humorless chuckle escaped his lips. "Divorce papers? Is this your latest stunt, Chelsie? Another desperate attempt to provoke me?" He tossed the envelope onto a nearby table, dismissively. "You know, the last time you tried to 'divorce' me, you ended up in my bed, begging me to stay." He stepped closer, his body towering over mine. "And you will again. Because you're mine, Chelsie. You always have been. And you always will be."

My blood ran cold at his arrogance, his absolute certainty. He didn't even look at the papers. He thought it was a joke. A game. My jaw tightened. Fine. Let him think that. The truth would hit him harder.

"Is that so?" I murmured, a sudden, dangerous calm settling over me. I stepped into his personal space, my hands reaching up to cup his face. His eyes widened slightly at the unexpected intimacy. My fingers tangled in his dark hair, pulling him closer. My lips met his, soft at first, then growing more insistent. I felt his surprise, then his reluctant response, his arms circling my waist, pulling me tight against him. His kiss deepened, hungry, possessive, claiming.

His mind, I knew, was reeling. He was thinking of Julia, of betrayal, of my wild defiance. But my lips, my body, were telling a different story, a story of surrender, of desire. And in that moment, all he cared about was the passion I was pouring into him.

As he got lost in the kiss, his attention completely on me, my hand snaked out, snatching the envelope from the table. My fingers found the pen in his jacket pocket. Still kissing him, still pouring every ounce of desperate longing I felt into the embrace, I moved my hand to the papers. His signature. Just one. He was distracted, utterly consumed by the moment. A quick, messy scrawl. Done.

I pulled away, breathless, my eyes sparkling with a dangerous triumph he didn't yet understand. He looked dazed, confused, but also undeniably aroused. "Chelsie," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. "What was that?"

I just smiled, a sweet, innocent smile that hid a dagger. "Consider it my wedding gift," I whispered, pressing my forehead against his. My heart was pounding, not from passion, but from the adrenaline of my victory. It was over. The papers were signed.

He laughed, a low, pleased rumble in his chest. He didn't even notice the envelope was no longer on the table. He didn't notice I had slipped it into my own purse. He just pulled me closer, his lips finding my neck, his hands roaming over my body. "Alright, Chelsie Miller," he growled, his voice rough with hunger. "You want to play rough? We'll play rough."

He lifted me into his arms, carrying me out of the deserted bar, ignoring my half-hearted protests. He took me back to the mansion, not to my room, but to his. He threw me onto his massive bed, his eyes burning with a possessive fire. "You think you can just flirt with other men, parade around half-naked, and then expect me to let you go?" he snarled, ripping off his shirt. "You're mine. And I'll remind you every single night until you remember."

The next few hours were a blur of raw, punishing passion. He took me with a ferocity that left me aching, both physically and emotionally. Each thrust was a declaration of ownership, each kiss a brand. "Mine," he whispered again and again, his voice hoarse, his body claiming mine. "Say it, Chelsie. Say you're mine."

I bit back the words, the tears. I wouldn't give him that satisfaction. Not now. Not ever again. I closed my eyes, letting the physical sensation consume me, trying to block out the emotional devastation. He was punishing me. For my defiance. For my perceived infidelity. For his own unresolved feelings for Julia. And I let him. Because in my purse, the signed divorce papers were a silent promise of my coming liberation.

Just as the intensity reached its peak, his phone rang. A frantic, urgent ringtone he used only for emergencies. He froze, his body tensing above me. He pulled away, grabbing the phone from his nightstand. His eyes, still clouded with passion, cleared instantly, replaced by a look of stark horror. "What?!" he barked into the phone. "Where? Is she okay?"

His voice was strained, laced with a fear I hadn't heard since the car crash. But this time, it wasn't for me. It was for her. Julia.

"No, no, no," he muttered, his face pale. He jumped out of bed, pulling on his clothes in a frantic rush. "I'm coming. Don't touch anything." He looked at me, his eyes wide and disoriented. "Chelsie, I need to go. Julia… she's in trouble."

My heart, already numb, just sank deeper. Of course. She was always in trouble. He was always running to her. "Go," I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. "You always do."

He hesitated, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, then turned and ran. The door slammed shut behind him. His car roared out of the driveway, tires squealing. I heard the frantic calls of his security details, the rush of other vehicles following him.

I lay there for a long time, the silence of the room deafening after his hurried departure. My body ached, but it was just a dull echo compared to the emptiness inside. I got up slowly, dressed in his shirt, and walked to the window. Outside, the night was dark, but a faint siren wailed in the distance. Julia. Always Julia.

I heard his driver pull away again. Drake, always rushing to Julia's side. My stomach churned. I felt a sharp pain, a wave of nausea. I stumbled out of the bedroom and into the bathroom, my head spinning. I gripped the cold porcelain of the toilet, feeling a sickness unlike any hangover.

The car was still speeding, Drake driving like a madman. I was in the passenger seat, my head pounding, the world outside a blur of flashing lights and dark trees. He didn't even seem to notice me. He was too consumed by his panic, by the emergency that involved her. I slumped against the window, my body aching from the rough ride.

Suddenly, he slammed on the brakes. The car skidded to a halt in a desolate, overgrown area. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth and decay. "Drake, what...?" I started, but he was already out of the car, slamming the door behind him.

I followed, my legs unsteady. A dilapidated warehouse loomed in the distance, its broken windows like vacant eyes. From inside, I heard muffled screams. Julia's screams.

Drake burst through the rusty doors, shouting her name. I followed, my heart pounding. Inside, a scene of pure chaos. Men, rough and menacing, were holding Julia. She was disheveled, terrified. And standing among them, a man I vaguely recognized from some society gossip pages - a disgraced former business rival of Drake's, notorious for his shady dealings.

"Knox," the rival sneered, a grotesque smile on his face. "So you finally showed up. And you brought a guest." His eyes landed on me, a predatory glint within.

Drake ignored him, his gaze fixed on Julia. "Let her go," he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Now."

"Oh, but that would be too easy, wouldn't it?" the rival chuckled. "This is Julia, isn't it? Your precious 'white moonlight.' The one you nearly lost your empire for, all those years ago." His eyes scanned Julia with a chilling possessiveness. "She's quite beautiful, even now. A true classical beauty. Just like they used to say."

Drake's face was a mask of cold fury. "She means nothing to me now," he spat, his voice devoid of emotion. "You can have her."

My breath hitched. My blood ran cold, again. He said that? Did he really mean it?

"Oh, really?" the rival scoffed, disbelieving. "After all the trouble you went through to track her down, to save her from her 'illness,' you just give her up?" He laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "You always were fond of her, Knox. Everyone knew it. She was the one true weakness of the Wall Street Reaper."

Drake just stared at him, his gaze icy. "She's nothing but a distraction. A ghost from the past." He took a step forward, then, to my utter shock, he reached out and pulled me roughly towards him, wrapping a possessive arm around my waist. My body stiffened against his. "This is my wife," he declared, his voice ringing with a false conviction that grated on my ears. "Chelsie Miller. The only woman who means anything to me now. If you want a weakness, find one here. But leave my ex-girlfriend out of it."

My stomach dropped. He was using me. As a shield. As a distraction. He was throwing me into the lion's den, sacrificing me to protect her, to protect his own reputation. He had just called me his wife, not out of love, but as a calculated move, a desperate attempt to deflect attention from Julia.

My head swam. The room spun. The pain in my heart was so immense, so suffocating, I could barely breathe. He used me. He never loved me. He never would. I was nothing but a pawn in his twisted game, a convenient wife to protect his true feelings, his true vulnerability, from the world. A profound, searing betrayal consumed me. I felt used, cheap, utterly discarded. So this was it. All the passion, all the indulgence, all the whispered "Mine"s. A grand deception. A desperate, shattering lie.

The raw, searing pain of his betrayal ripped through me. I was a shield, a pawn, a convenient wife. My heart, already bruised and battered, shattered into even smaller fragments. My stomach churned, a cold wave of nausea washing over me as I stood there, trapped in his possessive embrace, the words "This is my wife" ringing in my ears like a death knell.

"Your wife?" the rival scoffed, his eyes narrowing, suddenly fixed on me. "That's a new one. I heard you were practically obsessed with Julia Sosa, Mr. Knox. Chasing after her, paying all her medical bills, even when she disappeared for years." He gestured towards Julia, who was still trembling in the background. "And now, this little bird is your 'wife'? Don't insult my intelligence, Knox. Everyone knows who your heart truly belongs to."

Drake' s grip on me tightened painfully. "My heart belongs to no one here," he growled, his voice laced with venom. He pushed me slightly forward, almost as if presenting me as a prize, or perhaps, a sacrifice. "She is my wife. And we're leaving."

"Oh, no, you're not!" the rival roared, his face contorting in rage. He felt disrespected, unamused by Drake's deflection. "You think you can play games with me? You think I won't take what's rightfully yours, Knox? If your little 'wife' is so important, maybe we'll start with her!" His eyes landed on me, a terrifying, predatory glint. "A rich heiress, is she? What a lovely bonus."

He lunged forward, a glint of metal in his hand. A knife. My breath caught in my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the impact. I felt Drake's arm around me shift, heard him curse under his breath, but it was too late. A searing pain exploded in my side. A scream tore from my throat, raw and agonizing. My legs buckled.

Darkness, cold and swift, enveloped me once more.

When I woke, the familiar sterile smell of a hospital permeated the air. My side burned, a dull, throbbing ache. I opened my eyes slowly. Drake was there. He was sitting in a chair beside my bed, his head in his hands, his shoulders slumped. He looked… distraught. Concerned.

My mind, however, was stubbornly clear. His concern was too little, too late. It was after he had used me, after he had thrown me to the wolves. I watched him, a cold, bitter certainty settling in my chest. He wasn't worried about me out of love. He was worried because he had made a mistake, because his plan had backfired.

"Chelsie?" he murmured, his head snapping up as he sensed my gaze. His eyes, red-rimmed and filled with a haunted look, locked onto mine. "You're awake. Thank God." He reached for my hand, but I flinched away, my arm instinctively pulling back.

His hand hovered in the air, then dropped slowly. "Chelsie, I... I'm so sorry." His voice was hoarse with emotion.

"Sorry?" I whispered, my voice weak but laced with an icy contempt. "Sorry for what, Drake? For abandoning me for Julia? For throwing me at that lunatic to save her? For getting me stabbed?" My eyes burned into his. "Which part are you most sorry about?"

He flinched, his jaw tightening. "It wasn't like that," he began, his voice strained. "I was trying to protect you both. That man, he's unhinged. He had a history with Julia, a vendetta."

"A vendetta that conveniently put your 'white moonlight' in danger, making her irresistible to you again," I countered, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. "And in the chaos, you found it easier to throw your actual wife to the wolves than face your past." My voice rose, filled with a pain that was no longer hidden. "Tell me, Drake, was it worth it? Was she worth me nearly dying?"

He recoiled as if I had struck him. "Chelsie, stop. You don't understand the full story."

"Oh, I understand perfectly," I retorted, my voice trembling with suppressed rage. "I understand that you still have feelings for your ex-girlfriend. Deep, unresolved feelings that make me nothing more than a convenient distraction, a placeholder wife while you pine for her." I took a shaky breath, the pain in my side flaring, but I ignored it. "Tell me, Drake. If I were the one bleeding out in that warehouse, would you have still rushed to Julia's side?"

He looked away, his silence a damning answer. My heart sank, a heavy stone in my chest. There it was. The truth. Unspoken, but undeniably clear.

Just then, a nurse bustled in, her eyes wide with concern. "Ms. Miller, please, you need to rest. Your wound is quite deep." She frowned at Drake. "Mr. Knox, perhaps you should let her recover."

As the nurse changed my dressing, a fresh wave of pain shot through me. I bit my lip, trying to stifle a cry. My vision swam. Then, Drake's hand reached out, not to touch my arm, but to gently cover my eyes. His touch was feather-light, tender. "Don't look," he murmured, his voice soft, almost a plea. "It'll be over soon."

That familiar gesture. He had done that before, after the car crash, when I was scared, when I was hurting. My mind flashed back to that time, to his concern, his protection. A painful echo. He had been so tender then. Had it all been a performance? A trick of the light?

A fresh tear slipped from beneath my closed eyelids, rolling down my temple, lost in my hair. It wasn't a tear of pain from the wound. It was a tear of profound, aching sadness.

For the next few days, Drake was a constant presence by my bedside. He cancelled meetings, ignored his phone, his entire focus seemingly on my recovery. He brought me flowers, read to me, even awkwardly tried to feed me soup. He looked haggard, his eyes shadowed with fatigue, but he never left my side. He was, in every way, the devoted husband, the concerned lover. It was almost enough to make me believe him. Almost.

But I wasn't the naive girl who had fallen for his indulgence. I was the woman who had watched him run to another, the wife he had thrown to the wolves. As he slept in the chair beside my bed, his hand resting lightly on mine, I reached for my phone, hidden beneath my pillow. My fingers, still shaky, typed a quick message to my lawyer: "Proceed with the divorce. Now. No matter the cost."

Then, a more daring move. I opened my social media. A quick selfie, a bland hospital room in the background, a bandaged arm. Text overlay: "Officially single and ready to mingle. The chains are off, ladies and gentlemen. Accepting applications for freedom." I hit post. Let the world know. Let him know.

My phone immediately started buzzing with replies. Lexi's message popped up first: "OMG CHELSIE YOU GO GIRL!!!!!! SO PROUD OF YOU! WE'RE CELEBRATING TONIGHT!" Other friends chimed in, a chorus of cheering emojis and supportive messages. "No more Wall Street Reaper for you!" "Time to reclaim your crown, Queen!"

A message from Lexi came through again. "But seriously, are you sure he'll let you go so easily? Drake Knox isn't exactly known for accepting defeat."

A cold smile touched my lips. "He signed the papers, Lexi," I typed back. "He just doesn't know it yet." I wasn't just ready to mingle. I was ready to burn everything down.

"He can come begging on his knees, Lexi, and I still wouldn't look at him," I typed back to her, my fingers flying across the screen. "I'm done. D-O-N-E." I was out, truly out. My heart felt like a dead thing in my chest, but my spirit, once caged, was finally soaring.

"You really think you won't forgive him?" she asked, her voice skeptical on the call.

"Forgive him for what?" I scoffed. "For lying? For abandoning me? For getting me stabbed? No, Lexi. There' s no forgiveness for that. I loved him. I loved him with everything I had. But I also know how to walk away when someone shows you who they truly are. I loved him, and I let him go. Now, I'm just living."

The discharge papers were signed. My bag was packed. Drake was still sleeping, a deep, restless slumber, his face pale against the white pillow. I watched him for a moment, a strange mixture of pity and contempt swirling within me. He looked vulnerable, almost human. But the image of him choosing Julia, of him using me as a human shield, burned too brightly to be extinguished. I slipped out of the room, leaving him to his dreams, or perhaps, his nightmares.

That night, my world felt alive again. I was dressed in a shimmering silver gown, a defiant sparkle in my eyes. Lexi and our friends had dragged me to the most exclusive charity gala in the city, an event Drake would typically dominate. It was a declaration of war, a public statement of my freedom. I walked in, my head held high, and felt every eye turn to me. The gown shimmered, catching the light, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I felt beautiful. Truly beautiful.

A flurry of eligible bachelors, drawn to the newly single heiress, swarmed around me like moths to a flame. Their compliments, their eager conversation, were a balm to my wounded ego. I laughed, I flirted, I danced. It felt good. Better than good. It felt like living again.

Then I saw him.

He stood across the room, a dark suit cloaking his powerful frame. His eyes, cold and possessive, were fixed on me, a thunderous storm brewing in their depths. The crowd of men around me seemed to shrink under his gaze. He hated it. He hated seeing me laugh, seeing me free, seeing me with other men. A small, vindictive part of me reveled in his discomfort. He thought he owned me. He was wrong.

My gaze drifted past him, only to freeze. There she was. Julia Sosa, looking fragile and ethereal in a flowing white dress, her arm linked with Drake's father, Fred. She smiled sweetly at him, a picture of demure grace. My stomach clenched. She was everywhere.

Drake, sensing my distraction, his eyes following my gaze, saw her too. His expression shifted, a flicker of concern, something akin to longing, crossing his face. Then, he whispered something to Fred, who nodded gravely, and Drake began to move, not towards me, but towards Julia. My heart twisted, a familiar, sickening pang. He still chose her. Always.

I watched, a detached observer, as he approached her. He leaned in, his head close to hers, his hand gently touching her arm. She smiled up at him, a tearful, grateful smile. They looked like a couple reunited, a tragic love story finally given a second chance. The knot in my stomach tightened. He was always drawn to her tragedy.

Suddenly, loud music blared through the ballroom, announcing the start of the evening's main event: a competitive fencing match. The grand prize? A priceless ancient Greek vase, rumored to have belonged to a goddess.

Julia's eyes lit up. She turned to Drake, her voice a soft, wistful whisper. "Drake, remember that vase? The one we always talked about finding together? You said it would be the perfect centerpiece for our future home." Her words, though soft, carried across the room, deliberate and aimed straight at me.

A cold rage, sharper than any blade, ignited within me. My future home. Our future home. She was audacious, manipulative. I felt a surge of adrenaline, a reckless urge to wipe that smug, innocent smile off her face.

"I'll sign up," I declared, stepping forward, startling the men around me. My voice was clear, ringing with a newfound resolve.

Drake, who had been halfway across the ballroom, turned abruptly, his eyes wide with alarm. He started towards me, his voice low and urgent. "Chelsie, no. You're still recovering. Your arm..."

I cut him off with a dismissive wave of my hand. "Don't fret, Drake," I said, a brittle smile on my face. "I'm perfectly capable. Or are you afraid I'll win? And then who would get the 'prize' for your future home, Julia?" My eyes flickered to Julia, who now looked less demure and more furious.

"Chelsie, it's dangerous," Drake insisted, his hand reaching for mine, his concern, for once, feeling genuine. Or maybe it was just his possessiveness kicking in. I didn't care.

"I've faced worse, Drake," I retorted, remembering the knife wound, the burning betrayal. "You forget, I'm the one who drove a convertible into a reflecting pool. A little fencing match won't scare me." A savage joy filled me as I imagined taking Julia's "prize."

The arena was set up in the center of the ballroom. I chose a sleek, silver foil, the weight familiar in my hand. I had always been good at this, a childhood hobby my father had encouraged. My opponents were a mix of amateur enthusiasts and seasoned club fencers. They underestimated me. They always did.

But I wasn't just fighting for a vase. I was fighting for my dignity, for my right to exist outside of Drake's shadow, outside of Julia's manipulative games. With each lunge, each parry, each calculated thrust, I felt a resurgence of power. I was fast, agile, my mind sharp and focused. The crowd roared. My friends cheered for me.

Point after point, I dominated. My final opponent, a hulking man twice my size, fell to my blade. "Touché!" the referee declared. I had won.

A triumphant cheer erupted. Men swarmed me, congratulating me, their eyes filled with admiration. "That was incredible, Chelsie!" "A true goddess!" Their attention, their genuine awe, was intoxicating. It was a stark contrast to the suffocating possessiveness of Drake, or the venomous envy of Julia. I was seen. I was celebrated. Not as Drake's wife, but as Chelsie Miller, the fierce, independent woman.

Then, a cold voice cut through the adulation. "Chelsie. My car. Now."

Drake stood at the edge of the crowd, his face a mask of stone, his eyes burning with a dangerous intensity. He didn't ask. He commanded. The men around me, intimidated by his overwhelming presence, slowly backed away. Drake Knox. The Wall Street Reaper. His reputation preceded him, silencing all opposition.

I ignored him, turning my back, reveling in my victory. "Thank you all," I said, addressing the remaining admirers, my voice loud and clear. "It was a pleasure."

He was beside me in an instant, his hand clamping down on my uninjured arm. "I said, now." His voice was low, menacing.

"And I said I'm not going anywhere with you," I hissed, yanking my arm away. "I'm not your property, Drake."

His eyes flashed with fury, but then, he noticed it. A small trickle of blood, seeping from a small cut on my fencing glove. My earlier wound had reopened slightly. His expression softened, a flicker of something akin to worry in his gaze. He produced a pristine white handkerchief, carefully dabbing at the cut. "You're bleeding," he murmured, his voice surprisingly gentle.

His unexpected tenderness, the soft touch, momentarily disarmed me. A treacherous flicker of warmth, of familiarity, stirred within me. This was the Drake who had protected me from the car crash, the Drake who had covered my eyes in the hospital. The Drake who made me question everything.

But then, the memory of Julia, of his betrayal, of his cold dismissal, flooded my mind. It was a charade. A performance. His concern was for his reputation, for his property, not for me.

I snatched my hand away, his handkerchief falling to the ground. "Don't bother," I snapped, my voice cold and hard. "Your concern never lasts, Drake. It's always temporary." I turned and walked away, my back ramrod straight, heading for the ladies' room, leaving him standing alone amidst the scattered crowd.

The cut stung, a small, insignificant external wound compared to the gaping chasm in my heart. I reached the opulent marble washroom, splashing cold water on my face. My reflection stared back at me, fierce and defiant, but with a lingering vulnerability in my eyes. I pulled out a small bandage from my purse, clumsily trying to fix the cut. It was a shallow wound. Easy to fix. Unlike the deeper ones.

The door creaked open. I looked up, and my blood ran cold. Julia. She stood there, her eyes narrowed, her delicate features twisted into a sneer. "So, you won," she hissed, her voice dripping with venom. "Congratulations. You stole my prize, just like you stole my fiancé."

I sighed, turning back to the mirror. "Julia, please. I'm not in the mood for your theatrics."

"My theatrics?" she spat, her voice rising. "You parade around like a trophy, flaunting your temporary victory. You think you're so special, don't you? But you're just a replacement. A cheap imitation."

I turned slowly, meeting her gaze, my eyes icy. "Replacement or not, Julia, I won," I said, my voice dangerously calm. "And you lost. That vase? It's mine. The title of Mrs. Knox? Also mine, for now. And that's all that matters, isn't it? In this game, the winner takes all."

"You think you're so tough," she sneered, taking a step closer. "But you're just a spoiled brat who thinks she can buy anything."

"And you, Julia," I retorted, a cruel smile touching my lips. "You're a desperate woman clawing at the past. A faded memory trying to make herself relevant again. At least I'm not using a fake illness to manipulate a man."

Her face went pale, then flushed a furious red. "You little bitch!" she shrieked, lunging at me. Her hands grabbed my hair, pulling sharply.

I gasped, the pain momentarily disorienting. But then, a cold fury ignited within me. No one touched Chelsie Miller without consequences. I grabbed her wrists, twisting them, and with a swift, powerful shove, I sent her sprawling onto the cold marble floor. She cried out, a pathetic whimper.

I stood over her, my chest heaving, my eyes burning. "Let me make this clear, Julia," I said, my voice low and dangerous. "I don't play games. And I certainly don't tolerate physical attacks. You want to fight? Fine. But be prepared to lose everything."

Her eyes, wide with fear, darted around the luxurious washroom. She was cornered, outmatched. A flicker of something dark and dangerous crossed her face. "You think you've won?" she hissed, scrambling to her feet, her eyes narrowed. "You have no idea who you're dealing with. Drake will make you regret this. He'll make you pay." She backed away, her movements agitated, frantic. "You'll see. You'll regret it! I'll make sure of it." Her threats were empty, but her eyes held a chilling promise. She was desperate. And desperate people, I knew, were the most dangerous.