"Well, well. Didn't realize this loser had so many side pieces. Lucky bastard."
I glared at him, voice sharp with feigned outrage:
"Watch your mouth! He's my fiancé—we're getting married tomorrow!"
"Sweetheart, hate to break it to you, but he was just with that club girl, doing—"
Claude dragged out the words, pretending he was about to expose everything.
"Shut up! We love each other. I won't let you poison us with your lies!"
I pulled out my phone and made a show of dialing the police.
The call was fake, of course.
Claude cursed theatrically, then signaled his crew to scatter.
Brent lay crumpled on the ground. His face had swollen into something unrecognizable, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. His leg bent at an angle that made my stomach turn—in the best possible way.
Sweat beaded on his forehead. His whole body trembled with pain.
A twisted satisfaction flickered through me.
But my expression? Pure concern.
"Brent, are you okay? Talk to me! I'm taking you to the hospital right now!"
After surgery, Brent lay immobile in the hospital bed.
He grabbed my hand, voice thick with gratitude. "Thank you for believing in me."