From her mouth, about Victor and me—the word made bile rise in my throat.
My rage shattered its dam. My hand lashed out, striking her face with every ounce of strength I had left.
"You don't get to—"
Smack!
My head snapped sideways. Stinging heat spread across my cheek, radiating into my jaw.
Victor had hauled Georgia into his arms. His other hand—the one that just struck me—trembled at his side.
"Grace, you've gone too far," he snarled. "Stop bullying her."
I stared at him, blood running cold. Bullying her?
Georgia cradled her stomach, shrinking into his chest like a wounded animal. Victor didn't spare me another glance—he scooped her up and stormed out.
I made my way back to the university, mind numb.
I'd read the diary in the suitcase. I knew about the affair. But seeing him strike me to protect her? That was a different kind of agony.
When Georgia first arrived at Riverdale, she was a mouse—skittish, flinching at loud noises. I broke protocol to mentor her. I guided her hands through experiments, added her name to papers she barely contributed to, shielded her from the harshness of academia.
I thought I was gaining a sister.
Instead, she was busy getting "close" to my husband.