Juston's shock finally gave way to a towering rage. The public humiliation of the slap burned hotter than the sting on his cheek.
He ignored the man holding Anastasia. He strode forward and seized her wrist, his grip like a vise. "You're coming with me."
The words were ground out between clenched teeth. He started dragging her toward the club's interior.
The moment Juston's fingers closed around her skin, the familiar, suffocating revulsion returned. The peace she had felt just seconds before evaporated, and the tremors threatened to start again.
Ennis Sharpe released her, his hand falling away. He watched them go, a flicker of something cold and unreadable in his dark blue eyes, before he picked up his untouched drink.
Chanel hurried after them, trying to play the peacemaker. "Juston, don't be angry, Ana probably just—"
"Shut up!" Juston roared without looking back. Chanel froze, her face a mask of shock and embarrassment.
He dragged Anastasia into an empty private restroom, slamming the door shut behind them. He shoved her against the cold, tiled wall.
"Anastasia Beaumont, you've gotten bold, haven't you?" he hissed, his handsome face twisted with fury. "Who the hell do you think you are, hitting me in front of all those people?"
The pain in her wrist and the returning symptoms made her head spin. She fumbled for her purse, needing her medication.
Juston saw the movement. He snatched her bag, turned it upside down, and dumped its contents onto the marble countertop. Several small prescription bottles clattered across the surface.
"These damn pills again!" He picked one up, his eyes filled with contempt. "Can't you live without this crap? You're a useless, pathetic burden!"
His words were poison-tipped knives. Anastasia stared at him, and for the first time, she saw the full, ugly truth of her six years of devotion. It was a joke. A tragedy.
She didn't cry. She didn't beg. She just watched him with a strange, new calmness that seemed to irritate him even more.
While he was ranting, she snatched one of the bottles, twisted it open, and shook a few tablets into her palm. She tossed them into her mouth and swallowed them dry.
The bitter taste coated her tongue. She leaned against the wall, forcing her breathing to even out, waiting for the medicine to chase away the phantoms.
Her silence fueled his rage. He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him.
"Don't you forget who pulled you out of the gutter!" he snarled. "Six years ago, you'd be dead on the street if it wasn't for the Cross family! Everything you have, we gave to you!"
He was talking about the fire. The deepest, most sacred wound in her heart.
"My grandfather took you in. I made you my fiancée, gave you a life of luxury. And this is how you repay me?" Juston's voice dripped with the arrogance of a benefactor.
Anastasia's heart turned to ice. In his eyes, she was nothing more than a charity case, a pet who should be eternally grateful.
Her silence enraged him further. He thought it was defiance.
"And who was that guy?" he demanded. "You looked pretty damn comfortable falling into his arms, didn't you?" His tone was laced with a crude, insulting insinuation.
She finally spoke, her voice hoarse but clear. "Juston, you make me sick."
It was the first time she had ever said anything so blunt, so full of revulsion, to him.
He froze, then let out a laugh that was pure fury. "Sick? Good. That's good, Anastasia. It seems I've spoiled you."
He let her go, stepping back to smooth his wrinkled suit. His usual arrogance returned, but his eyes were cold and calculating now. He was looking at her like a disobedient tool that needed to be put back in its place.
"Since you've got so much fight in you," he said slowly, "I have an idea. A way to solve everyone's problems, once and for all."
