Warren knelt on the shattered porcelain. Blood from the cuts on his knees seeped through his tailored pants, staining the white marble beneath him. The silence in the foyer was absolute—no one dared to breathe, let alone speak.
Then Donovan spoke again.
"Since that hand likes to throw things," Donovan stated, his tone flat and absolute. "I will take the hand as payment."
The bloody implication in his words made the temperature in the room drop below zero.
Dock screamed. The sound was raw, animalistic—a boy who had never faced a single consequence in his spoiled life suddenly staring at the very real possibility of mutilation. He scrambled backward on his hands and knees, his expensive sneakers squeaking against the marble. "No! No, please! Dad! Mom! Do something!"
Elvie shrieked. She threw herself up the stairs on her hands and knees, her Chanel skirt ripping at the seam, her carefully styled hair coming undone. She reached Dock and wrapped her body around him like a human shield, sobbing hysterically.
"Please! Take my hand instead! He's just a boy! He didn't know who you were!"
Donovan didn't even glance at her. His eyes remained fixed on Warren, who was still on his knees, his forehead pressed against the cold floor. "Your wife is making a scene, Warren. Control her, or I will."
Warren's head snapped up. "Elvie!" he roared, his voice cracking with desperation. "Shut your mouth! Shut it right now, or I swear to God I will shut it for you!"
Elvie's sobs caught in her throat. She stared at her husband—the man who had promised her a life of luxury and status—with naked terror. He wasn't looking at her. He wasn't looking at Dock. He was looking at Donovan Suarez with the eyes of a man watching his entire world collapse.
And he was doing nothing to stop it.
Celina stood behind Donovan. She watched the people who had tortured her in her past life—Dock, who had broken her legs with a golf club; Elvie, who had watched and done nothing; Warren, who had orchestrated it all—crumbling like sand castles before a tidal wave.
But it wasn't enough. Watching them fall wasn't enough. She wanted them to know. She wanted them to understand, even if only for a moment, exactly who was standing over their broken bodies.
She stepped forward.
She reached out her hand. Her small, pale fingers pinched the fabric of Donovan's custom-tailored suit jacket. She gave it a tiny, almost imperceptible tug.
The entire room seemed to stop breathing.
Preston's eyes widened in horror. The bodyguards at the door stiffened. Even Warren lifted his head, his face contorted with disbelief.
Donovan stopped mid-step. He slowly turned his head. His dark, dangerous eyes dropped down to her fingers gripping his jacket.
Celina tilted her head up. Her clear, freezing eyes locked onto his.
"Let it go," Celina said. Her voice was calm, quiet, and completely steady.
The silence that followed was deafening. No one—not his business rivals, not his family, not even Preston—had ever told Donovan Suarez to "let it go" and lived to tell about it.
Donovan stared at her. She stared back. It was a battle of wills conducted entirely in silence, and Celina did not blink. Did not flinch. Did not look away.
A low, dark chuckle vibrated in Donovan's chest.
"You have a strange way of asking for favors," Donovan murmured, his voice low enough that only she could hear. "Most people beg. You tug."
"I don't beg," Celina replied, equally quiet. "And this isn't a favor. It's a strategic suggestion. You've already won. Taking his hand turns you into the villain. Leaving him intact but broken turns you into the legend they'll whisper about for years."
Donovan's eyes flickered. Something unreadable passed through them. Then he smiled—a real smile, sharp and hungry. "Strategic. I like it."
He raised his voice so the entire foyer could hear.
"Since she asked," Donovan said, his voice dripping with absolute authority. "He keeps the hand."
Warren let out a sob of relief so violent it sounded like a death rattle. Elvie collapsed against the stairs, her body going limp.
But Donovan wasn't finished.
"Bring him down here," Donovan commanded, pointing a finger at the stairs. "He apologizes to her. On his knees. Until she is satisfied."
The emphasis on "knees" was unmistakable. Dock would kneel to the girl he had tried to blind. In his own home. In front of the servants who had watched him grow up.
Warren scrambled up the stairs. He grabbed Dock by the collar—his own son, his pride and joy—and dragged him down the steps like a sack of garbage. Dock thrashed and screamed, but Warren was fueled by pure, desperate terror.
"Daddy, no! Please! She's nobody! She's trash!"
The slap came out of nowhere. Warren's palm connected with Dock's cheek with a crack that echoed off the marble. Dock's head snapped to the side, his lip splitting, blood trickling down his chin.
"You will apologize," Warren hissed, his voice shaking with rage and fear. "You will apologize, or I will let them take your hand myself."
Dock stared at his father. The man who had never raised a hand to him in his life. The betrayal in his eyes was absolute.
Warren kicked Dock hard in the back of the knees. Dock crashed to the marble floor, landing directly at Celina's feet.
He was a wreck. Snot and tears and blood smeared across his face. His chest heaved with panicked sobs.
"I'm... I'm sorry," Dock choked out. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please, I'm sorry..."
Celina looked down at him. This was the boy who had broken her legs with a golf club in her past life, laughing as she screamed. Now he was a blubbering mess at her feet, begging for mercy from the girl he'd called garbage.
She let the silence stretch. Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. Each one a hammer blow to what remained of his ego.
Finally, she crouched down. She brought her face level with his. Her voice was a whisper only he could hear.
"Remember this," Celina said. "Every time you think about throwing something at someone weaker than you—remember this moment. Because next time, I won't stop him."
She stood up. Looked at Warren. Looked at Elvie. Looked at Karrie, who was pressed against the wall, her face the color of old paper.
"I think we're done here," Celina said.
Donovan watched her with an expression of pure, predatory satisfaction. He reached over and pressed the scratched Patek Philippe into her palm.
"Keep the watch safe," Donovan murmured. "Consider it insurance. If anyone in this house forgets what happened today, you can remind them who you belong to."
The possessive words should have angered her. Instead, Celina felt a dark thrill run down her spine. In this house of enemies, belonging to Donovan Suarez was the most powerful protection she could have.
He turned and walked out. The Maybach's engine roared to life and faded down the driveway.
The Hayes family lay in ruins on the marble floor.
Celina adjusted her backpack and walked toward her room without a backward glance.
