Chapter 4

As he watched her battered form, a flicker of something like regret passed through his gaze, but his next words were ice.

"I know your family has some assets. But think carefully—do you really believe that little fortune can withstand Quinn Holdings if we decide to put the squeeze on you?

"Yes, Emily hit you first. So what? She's the one I love. Whatever she does, I'll take responsibility for it."

He paused, his voice grew even colder. "So let this be a warning. Next time you see Emily, you'd better be respectful."

With that, he walked back to Emily, his tone softening. "Are you satisfied now?"

But Emily pushed him away. "You used to say anyone who messed with me would pay a hundred times over.

"And now you're holding back after just one slap?"

She stared at Michael, her eyes brimming with hurt. "So this is what your love for me comes down to?"

She turned to leave, but Michael quickly grabbed her arm. "Emily, why do you have to crush my heart like this? What do you want from me?" His voice was desperate.

Emily turned back, a triumphant glint in her eyes.

"I don't need a hundredfold payback—just ten times is enough," Emily said, her voice icy and demanding.

"Emily, you know she saved my grandmother..." Michael said, conflicted.

"So you really can't bring yourself to do it, huh?" Emily scoffed, yanking her hand away. "Alright, I won't push you. From now on, we'll just go our own ways."

As she turned again, Michael pulled her back, this time encircling her in his arms.

His voice dropped to a low, indulgent murmur. "Still the same old Emily, can't stand a moment's slight.

"You come first, above all else. I'll do it. Just promise you won't talk about leaving me again."

"That depends on your performance," Emily said, a note of final satisfaction in her voice as she finally extricated herself from his embrace.

"Go on, prove it to me," she demanded, her eyes full of challenge.

Michael turned around and started closing in on Claire again, his steps slow and deliberate.

Claire could only stare, disbelief freezing her in place. "Michael, we're seeing Grandma in two days."

He didn't even break stride. "Claire, Emily is my line in the sand. You crossed it."

She tried to fight back, but what chance did she have? Her slender frame was no match for a man who spent hours in the gym every week.

The first slap came, sharp and stinging. Then another. And another.

By the tenth, the pain had blurred into a numb, distant throb.

All she could see was his face—once so familiar, now a cold stranger's mask. She remembered, bitterly, every time over the past three years he had said, "No one disrespects my wife." Those words now felt more brutal than the blows.

Michael finally pulled back, his palm flushed red. His voice was low, rough around the edges. "Emily, ten slaps. It's done."

Emily wiped away her tears and smiled, then rushed into Michael's arms. "I'll let it go this time."

The harshness in his expression vanished, replaced by a softness. "I'm glad you're not angry," he said.

Emily glared at Claire, her eyes full of challenge.

"Michael, doesn't she look just like some stray from the wrong side of town?" Emily sneered.

"Whatever you say," Michael replied.

Michael finally turned his gaze back to Claire, his brows drawn in a deep frown.

"The driver will take you home. A doctor will check your injuries. And about Grandma..."

He paused, his gaze hardening. "Watch what you say. Or you know what happens."

Claire slid down the mirror and crumpled onto the floor, her lips bleeding, her face swollen and battered.

She watched, motionless, as Michael guided Emily away with a careful, almost reverent touch, as though she were something fragile and precious.

The door clicked shut, sealing her inside a heavy silence.

In the mirror, her reflection stared back—clothes rumpled, eyes hollow with shame. She looked like a piece of crumpled paper, discarded without a second thought.

Then the room tilted, shadows swam at the edges of her vision, and a dizzying darkness pulled her under.

Before it swallowed her whole, one clear, cold thought pierced through: to Michael, she meant nothing. Not even a little.

*****

Claire woke in her own bed. A dull, persistent ache pulsed across her face. On the nightstand sat a melting ice pack and a small bottle of painkillers.

Michael stood by the window, his back to her, a cigarette between his fingers.

Hearing the rustle of sheets, he turned and crushed it out. "Awake?"

She didn't answer, just watched him through her puffy, bruised eyelids. His face was a blur.

Suddenly, she remembered the first time she met him three years ago—he'd been just as untouchable, like he was on a pedestal, cold and distant.

For three years, they'd gotten along, and she'd even thought they were friends, maybe even close.

But in the end, she was wrong. It was all just in her head.