The word hit like a fist to the sternum.
He'd just told me the wedding was postponed. And already he was calling someone else his fiancée.
I rushed to the club and found Stewart cradling a delicate, sobbing woman in his arms.
One of Stewart's friends pulled me aside, his face tight with worry.
"Some guys said Vivian was dressed like a hooker. Stewart heard and lost it."
"He's wasted. You need to talk him down."
A client had once harassed me, told me to sleep with him to close the deal.
Stewart hadn't been angry. He'd blamed me for being difficult, said I'd cost him business.
Now here he was, so drunk he could barely stand, yet raging like a wild animal because someone had said one unkind word about Vivian Porter.
Mid-argument, one of the men swung a bottle at Stewart's head.
My body moved before my brain caught up. I threw myself in front of him.
Crack.
The bottle shattered against my forehead. A dull, spreading pain.
Something warm and wet crept down from my hairline.
"You crazy bitch! You jumped in front of me! I didn't touch you!" The man's face went white. He dropped the bottle and bolted.
Glass crunched under his shoes as he fled.
Blood ran down my cheeks, warm and sticky. The concern I'd been praying for never came. Instead, Stewart's voice exploded in my ear:
"What the hell is wrong with you, Leonora? Didn't you see what they were doing to Vivian?"
"You just let the guy walk out? Was that on purpose?!"
Every word froze the blood in my veins.
Some pathetic part of me had wanted to see if he would lose his mind for me the way he did for Vivian.
But there was no tenderness in his eyes. No protectiveness. Only rage.
Why was I so desperate?
Stewart had already decided I was there to cause trouble.
"What are you even doing here? Came to laugh at Vivian?"
"Pack up that pitiful pride of yours. Let me make this clear: as long as I'm around, nobody touches her."
Tears of humiliation burned behind my eyes.
"I wasn't—"
Vivian cut me off with a sob. "Stewart, this is all my fault for coming to you for help! Leonora has every right to hate me. I should just go. You two can have your wedding."
Stewart melted instantly. He wiped her tears with a gentleness I hadn't seen in years:
"Don't you dare. She's the petty one, not you. You've done nothing wrong."
One of his friends, trying to break the tension, held out a glass of wine toward me.
"A toast to you, Mrs. Delgado."