The moment those words left his mouth, dozens of eyes locked onto me—dripping with contempt, burning with righteous fury.
"Beat him to death! Blood for blood."
"Yeah, don't let him off. He killed someone and he's still walking around on two legs."
"If it were me, I'd break his hands..."
The curses blurred together, a swarm of wasps buzzing in my skull. I couldn't make out individual words anymore—just noise, endless noise.
Henry smirked, riding high on the crowd's bloodlust.
I knew exactly why he hated me this much. That day, I hadn't just rejected Jacob. I'd rejected him too.
Every employee at that company worked themselves to the bone. Morning to night, overtime after overtime—all chasing promotions and raises.
How could I let two deadweights who never lifted a finger steal slots from people who actually earned them?
And the one who spread those rumors wasn't me. It was Henry.
Now he was using Jacob's fake death to settle the score.
"You deaf or dying? Lick my shoes clean, and maybe I'll let you crawl out of here."
I'd barely steadied myself, barely started pushing off the ground, when his fist cracked into my face again.
"Henry, knock it off!"
Elijah Simmons shoved through the crowd and pushed Henry back.
"Julian, you okay?" He crouched beside me, voice tight with worry. "Is your stomach acting up again? I'm taking you to the hospital right now."
He was reaching to lift me onto his back when Henry's crew closed in, forming a wall around us.
From across the bar, Isabel watched with furrowed brows—but she still wouldn't show herself. Not yet.
Jacob strolled over and sat beside her, draping an arm around her shoulders.
"Relax, babe. Henry knows the limits. He won't kill him or cripple him." He chuckled. "If he wanted Julian dead, the guy wouldn't still be moving."
Isabel's expression softened. She raised her wine glass and clinked it against his.
"You'd better not. I only wanted him scared—taught a lesson. I can't bear to actually hurt him."
"Of course."
"Since this is the last time... help me with one final act?"
She smiled, drained her glass, then set it down and settled into her wheelchair. Her friend wheeled her toward me.
"Julian Dickerson." Her voice cut through the noise, sharp and wounded. "So instead of staying home to take care of me, you snuck off here to drink and party."
"They told me you were messing around at some bar. I didn't believe them." Her voice cracked, perfectly performed. "But here you are. Do you even have a conscience? Do you secretly wish I'd just hurry up and die?"
I wanted to climb off Elijah's back. Wanted to face her, to defend myself.
But my body had nothing left. No strength. No fight.
So this was what it felt like—life slipping away. This helplessness. This struggle to hold on.
"Isabel, don't say that about him!" Elijah's voice was fierce. "He didn't come here to mess around. He took a temp job—to earn more money for your treatment. You've got it all wrong."
Henry snorted, his tone dripping with mockery.
"Oh please. Julian Dickerson, too proud to breathe the same air as the rest of us, working temp shifts at a bar? Who's gonna buy that?"
"Exactly." Someone in the crowd laughed. "Caught red-handed and suddenly he's here for 'work.' Yeah, right."
"What a joke."
