In the front row, Liam's handsome face twisted. The plastic bidding paddle in his grip snapped with a sharp *crack*, crushed into worthless scrap.
His stare cut toward the boy swinging his short legs in the front row.
A face exactly like his own—the ultimate mockery in this gilded room.
Liam moved.
He vaulted over the seats, murder radiating from every pore.
Security didn't dare stop him. The guests forgot how to breathe.
His hand shot out, fingers hooked like talons, aiming straight for the child's collar.
The boy didn't flinch. He simply looked up, eyes holding the same frozen indifference as mine.
Just as Liam's fingers grazed fabric—
A black shadow surged from the side.
My hand, clad in a tactical glove, clamped down on his wrist.
I squeezed. Full force.
Tendons strained across the back of his hand. Bones gave a crisp *pop*. He wrenched, twisted—my grip didn't budge an inch.
His gaze traveled up my arm.
Crashed into my stare.
Liam's pupils contracted to pinpoints.
He looked at me like he was seeing a corpse walk, forcing two words through clenched teeth. "Nora Henson?"
The room detonated into chaos.
"Nora Henson? Mr. Farley's ex-wife? The one who jumped into the sea five years ago?"