“Is this because my parents don’t like you, so you lash out at someone else?”
I spoke on instinct. “I didn’t push her—”
Before I could finish, he cut me off with a cold laugh. “You didn’t?”
He looked at me with open contempt. “So you expect me to believe that an actress—someone who treasures her face more than anything—would smash her own head into a cabinet just to frame you?”
“Mariah,” he said slowly, deliberately, “do you really think you’re some pampered heiress having a princess meltdown?”
“You enjoy taking your anger out on others that much?”
At that moment, every urge I had to explain vanished.
He had already decided I was guilty. Nothing I said would change that.
I lifted my head and looked straight at him.
“A pampered heiress?”
I repeated softly.
“Yeah,” I said, suddenly smiling. “I am.”
“I gave up being one for you. I walked away from my dad’s wealth, brought you a wedding gift, married you, and built everything from the ground up by your side.”
“Anyone else can accuse me of having a princess complex,” I said, locking eyes with him. “But you, Viggo? You don’t deserve to.”
As the last word fell, I slapped him back. Harder than he had hit me.
The sound echoed through the room.