Chapter 3
"The Quinn Group is every bit the equal of the Murrays. I believe I qualify," he said.
I finally looked at him and let out a soft laugh. "No, thanks. I've had enough of the spotlight."
"I'm serious, Stella," he insisted, leaning forward. "Consider it. No 'dream girls' in my past, no scandal. I give you my word."
"After marriage," he continued, a hint of earnestness in his voice, "you call the shots. Your word would be law."
I froze. Deep in my memory, someone else had once said those very words to me. And in the end...
Just as I was about to respond, an exclamation cut through the air.
"Anthony? What are you doing here?" It was Joshua, looking genuinely surprised until his eyes landed on me. His expression instantly soured with disgust.
He was with Naomi, who was looking at me with the smug gaze of a victor.
"Stella." Joshua sneered, "So now you're setting your sights on Anthony? Have you no shame?"
I stood up and slapped him across the face. "Learn to be quiet."
Joshua stared at me, hand to his cheek, utterly shocked. "You... you dare hit me?"
I slapped him again with my other hand. "Problem?"
Naomi was speechless, completely stunned.
Even Anthony, who had started to rise to intervene, slowly sank back into his seat at the sound of the second, resounding crack.
Being struck by a woman and in public was more than a man like Joshua, who'd been coddled as heaven's gift since birth, could stomach.
He lunged forward, ready to retaliate.
Anthony swiftly pulled me behind him, trying to calm Joshua, who was teetering on the edge of rage.
"Anthony, move. If you still consider me a friend, get out of my way," Joshua roared, his eyes bloodshot as they fixed on me.
I flexed my stinging wrist, completely unfazed by his fury.
Just the impotent rage of a weak man.
His family's company was on the brink, yet here he was, wasting his days with that tacky little schemer. Pathetic.
To think I almost tied myself to that useless fool because...
Well. No use dwelling on it.
In the end, it was Naomi's soft, placating whispers that gradually drained the fight from him.
"Are you alright?" Anthony asked, turning his concern to me.
I scoffed. "You should be worried about your friend."
The meeting ended on that sour note.
Afterward, Anthony launched a full-scale pursuit.
Flowers, gifts... nothing was spared.
He'd carve time out of his insane schedule just to have a meal with me.
Knowing I disliked restaurant grease, he learned to cook.
When I fell ill in the middle of the night, he bought medicine and brought it to my house.
My parents, mindful of propriety, politely turned him away at the door.
So he sat in his car downstairs, all night, saying he wouldn't leave until he knew I was okay.
When I was sick, I was... difficult. I'd refuse to eat anything except for some soup from a city five hours away.
Anthony somehow tracked down the owner's number, got the ingredient list, and tried recipe after recipe in his own kitchen.
After what must have been a hundred failed attempts, he finally presented me with a passable bowl.
The household staff couldn't stop singing his praises.
My parents were thoroughly impressed.
The gossip mill churned. "Anthony must be head over heels."
Under that relentless onslaught, I eventually became Anthony's girlfriend.
Sitting in his car one day, I teased him about his efforts.
A smile played on his lips. "As long as you're happy."
Our laughter died when his expression suddenly tightened.
"What's wrong?" I asked, confused.
He didn't answer immediately. A moment later, his voice was grave. "Stella... the brake lines. They've been cut."
We were on the highway. No brakes meant a direct negotiation with death.
A flash of panic gave way to cold focus.
"Head for somewhere less populated," I instructed, already pulling up a map on my phone.
I guided the route as Anthony skillfully weaved through traffic, narrowly avoiding disaster again and again.
"Take the next right in a hundred yards," I directed. The area was sparse, with fewer people to hurt.
But trouble has a way of finding us. A private car, angry we'd passed it, accelerated and swerved right in front of us.
Anthony's knuckles were white on the wheel, his horn blaring.
The other driver, a guy in his twenties, responded with his own furious honking, a look of arrogant triumph on his face.
"Damn it," Anthony cursed under his breath, a rare loss of composure.