Jordyn's strength was fueled by rage. He gave one last, vicious tug, and Aubree stumbled forward, the designer tote bag ripped from her grasp.
He didn't hesitate. He turned the bag upside down and shook it violently.
The contents spilled onto the grimy sidewalk. A tube of red lipstick rolled into the gutter. Her wallet slapped against the concrete. A set of keys, a paperback novel, a small notebook... and a single, small, white cardboard box.
Jordyn's eyes zeroed in on it instantly. He snatched it up.
He stared at the words printed on the side, his face contorting. His head snapped up, his eyes blazing with a wild, accusatory fire. He held the empty box aloft like a prosecutor revealing damning evidence.
"A morning-after pill?!" he roared, his voice cracking loud enough for the entire street to hear. "What is this? Huh? You tell me why the hell you have this!"
The blood drained from Aubree's face. She had completely forgotten the empty box was still tucked into a side pocket of her bag.
A collective gasp went through the crowd of onlookers. Their whispers grew louder, more pointed.
In Jordyn's simple, self-centered world, the equation was brutal and clear: she had taken a morning-after pill, which meant she had slept with someone else.
"Who was it?" he screamed, his face inches from hers. He grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking her hard. "Who is the bastard? Is it your rich boss? The one who just fired you?"
Paige scrambled to her feet and tried to pull him off. "Get your hands off her!"
He shoved Paige away again, sending her stumbling back. He raised his hand, his palm open, ready to strike.
Time seemed to slow down. Aubree flinched, bracing for the impact.
It never came.
A hand, strong and steady, shot out and clamped around Jordyn's wrist, stopping his arm mid-swing.
Jordyn cried out in pain and surprise, twisting to see who had intervened. He found himself staring into a pair of cold, emotionless eyes.
It was Alex Nash. Beck's aide, dressed in his immaculate suit, looked less like an assistant and more like a Secret Service agent.
High above, Beck had watched through the binoculars. He couldn't read the words on the small white box, but he saw Jordyn's face twist in fury as he held it up. He saw Aubree's expression of pure, unadulterated horror. He didn't need to read the label to know it was something that exposed her. And then he saw Jordyn's hand rise to strike her. That was when he'd pressed the button on his desk, a direct line to his security chief, and given a single, clipped order.
Alex applied a slight, almost casual pressure to Jordyn's wrist. "Sir," he said, his voice dangerously calm. "I suggest you release the lady. Now."
Jordyn struggled, but Alex's grip was like steel. With another twist, Jordyn yelped and his hand flew open, releasing Aubree.
"And I suggest you leave," Alex added, his voice dropping a degree colder. "Before the NYPD gets involved in a discussion about public assault."
Jordyn's eyes darted around at the sea of cell phones now recording his every move. Fear finally broke through his rage. He shot Aubree a look of pure venom, spat on the sidewalk, and then scurried away, disappearing into the crowd.
Alex helped Paige to her feet, then turned to Aubree, who was on her hands and knees, frantically gathering her scattered belongings. Her fingers closed around the damning white box, stuffing it deep into her purse.
She thought the nightmare was over. She stood up, ready to thank Alex, to get away from all the staring eyes.
But Alex wasn't looking at her. He was holding out his phone. It was already on an active call. The screen read: Beck Franco. Beck had heard every damning word through the open line.
Her hand trembled as she took it. She pressed it to her ear.
"Get in my car," Beck's voice commanded, leaving no room for argument. "Now."
Aubree looked up. Alex gestured subtly with his head. A black, armored-looking Maybach had pulled up silently to the curb, its tinted windows as dark and impenetrable as its owner's eyes.
Her heart sank. He had seen. He must have seen everything. The fight. The accusation. The box.
And he knew she wasn't engaged.
