He lunged forward, his hand shooting out toward the collar of my silk blouse.
I twisted my torso sideways. His fingertips grazed empty air, catching nothing but a ghost of my perfume. The momentum carried him half a step past me.
"Keep your hands to yourself," I said, smoothing the lapel of my jacket.
Timothy caught his balance. A harsh, barking laugh erupted from his chest. The sound bounced off the concrete pillars, loud and jagged in the empty garage.
"Pregnant?" he mocked, turning back to face me. "You really expect me to buy that?"
"Your belief isn't required."
"You are lying, Naomi." He took a step closer, his leather shoes scraping against the pavement. "It is a pathetic bluff. You think claiming you have some imaginary bastard in your belly will make me jealous? Make me fight for you?"
"You flatter yourself."
"I know exactly who you are," he sneered. "You are the same desperate girl who sobbed on the driveway of the Diamond Estate."
The name of the property hung in the damp air between us.
"Do you remember that night?" Timothy asked.
I kept my face still.
"The thunderstorm," he continued, his voice dropping into a cruel, taunting rhythm. "You were on your knees in the mud. You ruined that expensive white dress."
"Stop talking."
"You begged me not to go," he pressed on, stepping closer until I could smell the sharp mint of his cologne. "You clung to my trousers. You screamed that you couldn't survive without me, without the Gibson name. You offered to accept Esther. You offered to look the other way. Anything, just to keep the ring on your finger."
I watched his mouth move, forming the ugly words.
"I left you shivering in the dirt," he said, a twisted smile forming on his lips. "I drove away. And you stayed there, crying until you passed out. You crawled to me then. You will crawl to me now."
"You have an excellent memory for your own cruelty," I replied.
"I have an excellent memory for your pathetic nature," he shot back. "A woman like you does not survive outside our circle. You are weak. No one else wants the Gibson family's discarded trash."
I stared at him. Seven years ago, those words would have hollowed out my chest. The memory of the freezing rain, the taste of mud and tears, the sight of his taillights disappearing into the dark—it used to haunt my nightmares.
Now, looking at the sharp lines of his face and the arrogant tilt of his chin, I felt nothing.
"Are you finished?" I asked.
My utter lack of reaction made a muscle twitch in his jaw. He wanted tears. He wanted the broken girl from the Diamond Estate. He expected me to shatter.
"You think this stoic act fools me?" he demanded.
"It isn't an act. You just don't matter to me anymore."
"I am your only way out!" he yelled, his composure finally cracking. "Your family's business is bleeding money. Your father is desperate. I am throwing you a lifeline. All you have to do is get in the car, smile for the old man, and give me a son."
"I would rather starve."
"You will do as you are told."
"Why isn't Esther giving you an heir?" I asked, tilting my head. "You threw me away for her. You gave her the house, the cars, the jewelry. Why isn't she sitting by your grandfather's bed?"
Timothy's face darkened. "Do not bring Esther into this."
"Ah," I smiled, a genuine, cold smile. "Grandpa Gibson never accepted her, did he? He threatened to cut you out of the will if you married her. That is why you are here. You need me to secure your inheritance."
"Shut your mouth."
"You don't want me, Timothy. You want the estate. And you are terrified your cousins will take it from you."
"I said shut up!"
Timothy lunged again. This time, he didn't miss. His fingers clamped around my upper arm. His grip bruised the skin right through my sleeve.
"Release me, Timothy."
"We are going to see my grandfather," he gritted out, yanking me toward the exit lane. "You will tell him we are reconciling. And you will drop this ridiculous pregnancy lie before I make you regret it."
I dug my heels into the epoxy floor. I twisted my arm, trying to break his hold, but his fingers only dug deeper.
"Security!" I shouted.
"Scream all you want," he spat, dragging me another two steps. "No one is coming to help you. You belong to me."
"I belong to no one."
"You are a Gibson!"
"I am a Vance. And you are trespassing."
He laughed again, a dark, ugly sound. "Trespassing? I own half this city. I own you."
He yanked me harder, pulling me off balance. My shoulder flared with pain. I raised my free hand, ready to strike his face.
"You hit me, and I will ruin your father's company by morning," he threatened, catching my wrist in mid-air. "I will bankrupt your entire family. Get in the car."
"I will kill you first."
"You do not have the spine for it."
The screech of tires ripped through the garage.
A massive black Rolls-Royce tore around the corner. The engine roared, echoing like a beast in a cage. It didn't slow down. It barreled straight toward us.
Timothy froze.
The car slammed on its brakes. The tires smoked against the concrete, leaving thick black streaks. The heavy vehicle stopped exactly two feet away, wedging itself between Timothy's parked Porsche and my body.
High-beam headlights flared to life.
The blinding white glare hit Timothy square in the face. He dropped my arm instantly, throwing his hands up to shield his eyes.
"What the hell is your problem?" Timothy yelled, squinting into the blinding light.
I rubbed my aching arm, stepping back into the shadows. The Rolls-Royce sat idling, its engine a low, powerful hum. The license plate gleamed in the harsh light. Five identical eights.
The tinted rear window began to slide down.
The glass lowered with a soft, mechanical hum. The interior of the car remained cloaked in shadows, but the air around us seemed to drop ten degrees.
A man's voice cut through the heavy silence of the garage. Deep, freezing, and carrying an authority that made the concrete walls vibrate.
"Take your hands off my wife."
