Taryn took another step, closing the distance between them. The malicious glint in her eyes was unmistakable.
"You don't get to give orders here," she hissed, her voice a low, ugly whisper. "You are nothing."
Ciara clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. The nausea was back, a bitter, acidic wave of humiliation.
"I am still Jordon's wife," she said, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. "And you will show me respect."
That was the spark that lit the fuse. Taryn's face contorted with fury. With a deliberate, almost theatrical flick of her wrist, she tilted the cup.
Scalding hot espresso shot out, landing directly on the back of Ciara's right hand.
The pain was instantaneous and sharp, a thousand tiny needles stabbing into her skin. A dark brown stain bloomed on her white skin, and the fabric of her blazer was ruined.
Ciara gasped, pulling her hand back. A few executives winced, but no one moved. They just watched.
"Oh, clumsy me," Taryn said, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. A cruel, triumphant smile played on her lips.
The skin on Ciara's hand was already turning an angry red, a blister beginning to form. The physical pain sliced through the fog of her emotional shock, igniting a pure, white-hot rage.
Ciara didn't wipe away the coffee. She didn't cry out.
She raised her left hand.
The sound of the slap was sharp and loud, a crack of thunder in the silent, carpeted hallway.
Taryn's head snapped to the side. A bright red handprint bloomed on her perfectly made-up cheek.
For a heartbeat, there was absolute silence. Everyone stared, mouths agape, at the quiet, unassuming wife who had just struck a Webb.
Then Taryn shrieked, a raw, animal sound of outrage. She lunged at Ciara, her manicured nails aimed for her face.
At that exact moment, the mahogany doors to Jordon's office were thrown open with a deafening bang.
Jordon stood there, his face a thundercloud. His presence was a physical force, instantly silencing the chaos.
His sharp gaze swept the scene. He saw Taryn, clutching her face, tears streaming down her cheeks. He saw Ciara, standing tall and defiant, her chest heaving.
From his angle, with Taryn partially blocking his view, he initially missed the damage. But as he stepped forward, his sharp gaze caught the angry, blistered skin and the dark coffee soaking Ciara's right hand. A sudden, sharp pang tightened his chest, an instinct to reach out and inspect the burn. Yet, surrounded by his top executives, he forced his jaw to clench, suppressing the urge. He couldn't show weakness here; he had to maintain the ironclad, cold authority that kept the family sharks at bay.
His eyes, cold as a winter sky, landed on Ciara.
"What do you think you're doing?" he demanded, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "This is a place of business. We don't air our petty dramas here. You clearly don't understand the rules."
The words hit her harder than the slap, harder than the hot coffee. She looked at him, searching his face for a flicker of concern, of support, of anything.
She found nothing but ice.
Ciara slowly, deliberately, hid her injured hand behind her back. A single tear escaped, tracing a path down her cheek, hidden by the dark lens of her sunglasses.
She didn't say a word. She didn't defend herself.
A bitter, broken smile touched her lips. She took a step back, creating a chasm between them.
She gave him one last look, the look you give a stranger you never want to see again. Then she turned and walked toward the elevator.
The doors slid open as if on cue. She stepped inside, pressing the button for the lobby, and the doors closed, shutting out the whispers, the stares, and the man who had just shattered the last piece of her heart.
Jordon watched the numbers above the elevator descend. A strange, unfamiliar tightness gripped his chest. His gaze fell to the floor, to a dark, ugly stain on the pristine carpet.
Coffee.
As the elevator dropped, Ciara leaned against the cold metal wall. She pressed a hand to her lower abdomen, a silent promise to the life growing inside her.
This marriage was over.
---
