She had to force herself away from the pillar.
Anastasia smoothed her dress, plastered a stiff smile on her face, and walked toward the terrace. She saw him instantly. Juston was the center of a laughing circle, a king on his throne.
And at his side, her hand tucked possessively in the crook of his arm, was a petite girl in a white dress.
Chanel White.
Chanel's eyes met hers, and a flicker of triumphant provocation lit them up. She leaned closer to Juston, a silent declaration.
Anastasia stopped before them, holding out the tie. "Juston, your tie." Her voice was barely a whisper.
He took it without looking at her, tossing it onto a nearby table as if it were trash.
Chanel let out a delicate laugh, her voice pitched just loud enough for the surrounding tables to hear. "Juston, you're so good to Ana. Making her come all this way in this awful rain. Unlike me, I had to drive myself."
The words were a masterclass in passive aggression, a sweet-venomed dart aimed right at Anastasia, while showcasing her own special status.
A few of Juston's friends snickered. Their eyes, a mixture of pity and amusement, settled on Anastasia.
Heat flooded her face. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, but she held herself still. She knew from six long years of experience that any protest would only earn her a harsher, more public humiliation.
Juston seemed to savor the moment. He leaned back, a cruel smile playing on his lips as he looked at her.
"Let's make a bet," he said to his friends, his voice lazy and loud. "I bet Ana would stand here in the rain for an hour if I told her to. She wouldn't dare leave."
The words were a bomb. The chatter around them died. Everyone stared, first at Juston's smug face, then at Anastasia's.
Chanel gasped, covering her mouth in a perfect imitation of shock. "Juston, don't be mean. You'll hurt Ana's feelings." But her eyes danced with unconcealed excitement.
Humiliation. Rage. A soul-crushing despair.
Every emotion she had suppressed for six years erupted at once. The dam of her restraint didn't just crack; it shattered.
She lifted her head, her eyes locking onto Juston's. They were filled with an icy hatred he had never seen before.
Before anyone could react, she raised her hand.
With all the strength in her body, she swung.
Crack.
The sound was sharp and clear, echoing across the suddenly silent terrace.
Time stopped.
Juston's head snapped to the side, a red handprint blooming instantly on his cheek. He was frozen, his mind unable to process that the ever-obedient Anastasia had just struck him.
Chanel was the first to break the spell. "Ana, are you crazy?" she shrieked. "How dare you hit Juston!"
She lunged forward, shoving Anastasia hard on the shoulder.
Already weak and emotionally shattered, Anastasia lost her footing. A small cry escaped her lips as she stumbled backward, bracing for the cold, hard floor.
The impact never came.
Instead, she fell into a solid, warm embrace. A strong arm wrapped securely around her waist, catching her, steadying her.
Her cheek was pressed against the fine fabric of a suit jacket. A clean, cool scent filled her senses—rain-washed grass and a faint hint of sandalwood.
And in that single moment of contact, the frantic, screaming need inside her went silent.
The tremors stopped. The burning ache under her skin vanished. A profound, unprecedented sense of peace washed over her. It was like a cool drink of water after a lifetime of thirst.
Anastasia froze, stunned, greedily soaking in the calm.
Slowly, she lifted her head.
She looked straight into a pair of eyes as deep and dark as a midnight sea.
It was him. The man from the corner.
Ennis Sharpe held her, his gaze sweeping over her pale, defiant face before landing on the furious Juston and the panicked Chanel. His expression was utterly calm, as if he were watching a rather boring play.
His hand was still on her waist. The hand she had craved. Through the thin fabric of her dress, its warmth was a steady, grounding presence, a cure.
