"Damn, look at those hips. Built to breed sons, that one!"
"No kidding. Stacked front and back. Real piece of work."
"You can tell from how she dresses. Total slut."
Every taunt made the satisfaction in Brent's eyes run deeper.
My stomach turned cold.
I'd refused every match my family ever arranged—eight years I'd held on to Brent, eight years I'd chosen him over everything, and three times in those eight years the Delgado business had nearly gone under, and every single time I'd gone to my father on my knees to bail them out. Earlier this year Brent proposed, and I thought I'd finally gotten my happiness. Then the very next day his childhood sweetheart Gloria Fox flew back from overseas, and from that moment nothing between us was the same.
The only reason I'd agreed to take over the Pruitt branch in Monterra City was to give Brent one last chance. To give us one last chance.
Looking at him now, that wasn't necessary anymore.
"If you still won't apologize, I'm going to get really upset…"
Gloria pouted, tears spilling down her face like beads off a broken string.
I swallowed my disgust and surged to my feet.
My arm swung up and cracked across Gloria's face.
Then I ripped the high-pressure water gun out of the man beside me, aimed it square at Gloria's chest, and slammed the trigger.
Dirty water soaked through her dress instantly, her red bra showing through for everyone to see.
"Don't run!"
I kept the gun on her without letting up for a second.
"It's a water festival, isn't it? You're supposed to get soaked! Come on!!"
Gloria clutched her chest, shrieking as she scrambled into Brent's arms.
My handprint was still on her face.
I grabbed the shawl from Brent's hand and threw it over my own shoulders.
One cold look at him, and I turned to leave.
The kick hit the small of my back before I'd taken a step.
Brent.
Blinding pain tore outward from the base of my spine and flooded my whole body.
But it was nothing compared to the pain in my chest.
Three years ago, a rival faction kidnapped Brent. I brought every last one of my family's men from Kingsport to pull him out, and a knife went clean through the small of my back. Eighteen hours of surgery. Thirty-six steel pins just to hold me together.
On the day I was discharged, Brent knelt in front of me.
Told me he could never repay what I'd done for him. Not in this lifetime.
For three years after that, every overcast day, every rainstorm, the pain locked me in place so completely I couldn't move—and every time, Brent would cancel everything, meetings, dinners, all of it, just to kneel beside me and hold warm compresses against my back, hour after hour.
And now, for one woman, he'd driven his foot into that very spot.
"Maya. I told you. Apologize—or you don't get to walk away from here clean."
Brent's voice, ice-cold, dragged me back.
He planted his foot on the small of my back.
A crack.
White-hot numbness and a searing ache ripped through my lower back at once, and I couldn't hold back the groan. I knew—somewhere in there, something had just given way.
The doctor's words when I was discharged hit me like a wall: one more serious blow to that area and I'd never walk again. No one on earth could fix it.
My father's voice on the phone moments ago echoed in my head.
I clenched my teeth, looked up at Brent, and forced the words out through the shaking.
"I was wr—"
He cut me off before I could finish.
"You want to apologize?! Too late!"
His eyes were vicious.
"Maya, I let you run wild for eight years. Today I'm putting you back in your place."
He glanced behind him. Dozens of water guns swung toward me in unison.
The jets hit all at once, slamming into my face and body like whips.
