Chapter 3
"Gentlemen." Matthew's smile was polite, but the chill in his eyes could freeze the air. "She's my new assistant. She's still learning how things work around here, so do me a favor and let her go, yeah?"
The businessmen, already drunk and smirking, exchanged looks. "So this is the famous Mr. Grant," one of them slurred. "No wonder your assistant's such a knockout. Gorgeous."
"Relax, man," another said with a lazy grin. "We just wanted her to have a few drinks with us. Not like we're gonna eat her alive."
One man chimed in, "Yeah, Mr. Grant, don't be so stingy. A beauty like that shouldn't be kept all to yourself."
They reached for Claire's wrist as they spoke.
Terrified, Claire pressed herself against Matthew, tears glistening in her eyes. She looked fragile and pitiful.
Matthew's gaze softened with something that looked an awful lot like pity. It was an expression Emily had never seen directed at her.
He'd spoiled her and indulged her. But he had never looked at her like that—with tenderness, with concern, with love.
Something sharp tore through Emily's chest.
And then, to her horror, Matthew's eyes found her across the room.
His expression shifted—cold calculation flickering behind the concern. He strode toward her, grabbed her wrist, and murmured, "Honey, just bear with it for now. Do me this favor."
Before she could even react, he shoved her toward the group of men.
Emily froze. "Matthew?" Her voice shook. She couldn't believe what he'd just done.
But he didn't even flinch. Instead, he turned to the businessmen with an easy grin. "This is my wife. She can handle her liquor. She'll keep you guys company."
The men burst out laughing. One slipped an arm around Emily's waist. "Mr. Grant, you lucky bastard. Mrs. Grant's a real stunner."
Someone echoed, "Yeah, no kidding. I swear she looks just like your assistant though."
Another man laughed, "Who cares? Come on, Mrs. Grant, have a drink with us!"
They poured glass after glass, and Emily—still weak from her surgery—could barely stay upright.
Across the room, Matthew was wrapping his jacket around Claire's shoulders. He only cared about Claire.
Emily saw it all, her heart cracking open a little more.
"Matthew, I don't feel well," Claire murmured, voice small and trembling. "My stomach hurts. I need to lie down."
Matthew nodded, worry creasing his brow. "I'll take you."
Emily could only watch as he led Claire out, like she no longer existed.
Her teeth sank into her lip until she tasted blood. Her eyes burned with humiliation, but she refused to cry—not in front of these men.
Twenty minutes later, the businessmen were passed out, their laughter turned to snores. Emily, drenched in spilled liquor, stumbled out of the venue, reeking of alcohol.
It had been less than forty-eight hours since the miscarriage. Her body was wrecked.
On the empty street outside, she clung to a lamppost and threw up until there was nothing left. Whatever pride she once had as Mrs. Grant was gone.
A group of thugs spotted her and circled like wolves. "Hey, gorgeous," one sneered. "Why don't you come hang out with us for a bit?"
Emily could barely stand, but when one of them grabbed her arm, she slashed at his face with her nails. "Get away from me!" she shouted, voice hoarse.
"Bitch, you're asking for it!" another growled, raising his hand. Suddenly, a blinding pair of headlights cut through the darkness.
A Maybach screeched to a halt, scattering the thugs like roaches. They bolted, cursing as they ran.
Emily blinked through the haze, and the shape that emerged from the car made her heart twist. It was Matthew.
He walked toward her quickly, reaching as if to lift her up, but before he could, Claire's voice floated from the passenger seat. "Matthew, my heel broke. I can't find my shoe. What should I do?"
Matthew hesitated, glanced back at the car, and said flatly, "Honey, get in the car yourself." Then he turned and walked away.
Emily stood there, soaked in tears and vomit, a hollow laugh escaping her lips.
So that was what she was worth to him—less than a single lost high heel.