The Penniless Artist's Cruel Awakening

When she saw me, her eyes raked over my body with unconcealed contempt.

"Clark was right, you really are nothing special. You have a stench of poverty you just can't wash off. No wonder he never took you to public events. Someone like you could never belong in our world. After all these years, he still saw you as nothing more than a bed warmer."

I straightened my rumpled collar and retorted coldly, "Then I suppose you're the new bed warmer."

Her face darkened. Her hand flew out and slapped me hard across the face.

"You shameless nobody. I'm the one he loves. Be smart, take his money, and disappear. I never want to see your pathetic face again."

My cheek flared with pain. No one in my life had ever dared to treat me this way. Without a second thought, I slapped her back.

She froze, clutching her cheek, then shrieked, "You hit me!"

Delilah raised her hand to strike me again, but I shoved her. Teetering on five-inch heels, she stumbled back a few steps before losing her balance and collapsing to the ground.

She pointed at me, her face contorted with fury, and screamed at her bodyguards, "Hit her! Beat her!"

As the bodyguards advanced menacingly, I shouted, "We haven't broken up yet. You lay one hand on me, and you'll see what he does to you."

The bodyguards hesitated.

Just then, Clark came running over, his face etched with concern as he rushed to help Delilah up.

"Delilah, are you hurt?"

Delilah bit her lip, holding up hands that were scraped and bleeding from the gravel.

His face darkened instantly, his sharp gaze locking onto me.

I opened my mouth to explain, but before a word could escape, his hand swung through the air and connected hard with my cheek.

Smack!

This slap was far harder than Delilah's. I instantly tasted the metallic tang of blood in my mouth.

"They may not dare to touch you," Clark roared, "but I will!"