This wasn’t a meeting to talk with Alfred Schumann. This was a setup. A trap. A meticulously orchestrated spectacle meant to humiliate me in front of everyone.
The crowd surged closer, pushing and shoving me with cruel laughter. Their insults stung like sharp jabs, and their mockery was relentless. The sea of bodies made it impossible to keep my footing. I stumbled, eventually falling to my hands and knees on the cold, marble floor.
The pain of it all—the physical bruises and the unbearable shame—was suffocating.
After what felt like an eternity, I managed to crawl out of the mob, only to have my path blocked by a familiar figure.
He stood there, arms crossed, with a smirk that made my blood run cold. “Miss Kent says Mr. Carmichael needs a little courage boost. How about a drink?”
The mocking tone belonged to Margot’s bodyguard, the same man who had shattered my hand once before. His presence alone made my pulse quicken with dread.