Chapter 150

No.1

Elisa didn't go home. She couldn't face the quiet of the safe house, not with the echo of August's words ringing in her ears. She needed a drink. She needed noise. She needed to disappear.

She walked back into the St. Regis, but instead of going to the ballroom, she went to the hotel's famous bar. It was dark, crowded, and loud. The perfect place to be alone.

She sat at a corner table, nursing a glass of whiskey,staring at nothing. The burn of the alcohol was a welcome distraction from the cold emptiness in her chest.

She didn't notice the man until he was standing right next to her.

"Hey there, sweetheart."

Elisa looked up. The man was tall, with a flushed face and bloodshot eyes. He was wearing an expensive suit that was rumpled and stained, and he reeked of

No.2

expensive scotch and cheap cologne.

"Alone?" he slurred, leaning in close. "You look like you could use some company."

"I'm,fine," Elisa said, turning away. "Please leave."

The man didn't move. He placed a heavy hand on the back of her chair, trapping her. "Come on, don't be like that. I saw you at the party. You're one of a kind,right? The pretty little assistant. I bet you're looking for a real tip."

Elisa's skin crawled. "I said, leave me alone."

She tried to stand up, but the man moved his other hand, grabbing her wrist. His grip was tight, his fingers digging into her skin.

No.3

"Don't be a tease," he sneered, his breath hot and foul on her face. "I know your type.You play hard to get, but you're all the same. How much? Name your price."

Elisa's instinct kicked in. She twisted her arm,breaking his grip with a sharp, practiced move. She brought her other hand up, ready to strike.

But before she could, a different hand shot out.

A strong, elegant hand grabbed the drunk man's wrist, twisting it backward with a vicious snap. The man howled in pain, stumbling back.

Preston Vance stepped between them, his face a mask of cold fury. He was wearing a perfectly tailored tuxedo, his dark hair slicked back, his eyes glittering with a dangerous light.

"I believe the lady said no," Preston said, his voice soft and lethal.

No.4

The drunk man, emboldened by alcohol and humiliation, took a swing. Preston dodged it easily,then drove his fist into the man's jaw. The crack of bone was sickening. The man crumpled to the floor,out cold.

The bar went silent.Everyone was staring.

Elisa stared at Preston, her heart pounding. She looked past him, toward the entrance of the bar.

August hadn't gone far, the fury from their confrontation coiling in his gut. He'd turned on his heel,heading for the first place he could find a drink-the hotel's famous bar-only to see a scene that made his blood run cold. August was standing there.

He had seen the whole thing. The drunk man grabbing her. Preston stepping in. The punch.

And he didn't move. He simply watched, his expression cold and unmoved, as if observing a low-class street brawl that had unfortunately spilled into his line of sight. His lip curled into a faint, cruel sneer of vindication. This, his eyes seemed to say, was her world. This was the kind of trouble she attracted. He thought she deserved it. He thought she had provoked it.②

No.5

The sneer was worse than a slap. It was a complete and utter rejection. He didn't see her as his wife.He didn't even see her as a human being. He saw her as garbage.

August turned, his expression of contempt fading into boredom, and walked out of the bar. He didn't say a word. He didn't offer to help. He just left.

The drunk man on the floor started to groan, trying to get up. Preston kicked him, hard, in the ribs. "Stay down."

The man screamed. The bartender reached for the phone. "I'm calling the police!"

Preston ignored him. He turned to Elisa, his expression softening into a look of intense,possessive concern. "Are you alright? Did he hurt you?"

Elisa couldn't speak. She could only stare at the empty doorway where August had stood.

No.6

The next few minutes were a blur of shouting and flashing lights. The NYPD arrived quickly, their sirens screaming outside. They separated Preston and the unconscious man, taking statements from the witnesses.

'"You," a cop said, pointing at Elisa. "You're the one he grabbed. We need you to come down to the precinct. Give a statement."

"I'l come with her," Preston said immediately,stepping to her side. He placed a proprietary hand on the small of her back. "I am Preston Vance,and my legal team will be representing her."

Elisa wanted to shrug him off, but she was numb.She let him guide her out of the bar, past the flashing cameras of the paparazzi who had somehow already gathered, and into the back of his waiting armored

SUV, trailing the police cruiser.

As the car pulled away from the St. Regis, Elisa looked out the window. She saw the lights of the hotel, the glittering facade of the world she had just beeń thrown out of.

No.7

And she knew, with a cold, absolute certainty,that the woman she had been was gone. The wife who had hoped for a reconciliation, the woman who had still cared what August thought-that woman was dead.

She had been publicly humiliated, falsely accused,and left to rot by the man she had married. And now,she was sitting in the back of a billionaire's car with a man she didn't trust, heading to a precinct to explain why she had been harassed in a bar.

She looked at Preston, who was typing furiously on his phone. She didn't trust him. But she didn't have to. He was a tool. Just like the law. Just like the data.

She would use whatever she had to. She would climb out of this hole, and she would drag August Chambers down into it. It was about survival.