Back then, when Arabella rammed her car into his family’s vehicle, I was the one who dragged him out, even with the gas tank about to explode. He was bleeding everywhere, his strength nearly gone, yet he clung to me with all he had.
That day, he told me he hated her and how lucky and grateful he was to have me.
Now, that memory just made me feel tired.
I grabbed my bag and stood to leave, but his hand clamped around my arm, hard enough to bruise.
The sting pushed me over the edge. I yanked free and slapped him hard.
Everyone froze, except for Arabella, who looked almost entertained.
With a red handprint blooming across his cheek, he said nothing. But the fury in his silence made it clear that he was livid.
But what right did he have to be angry?
I shook the pain out of my hand, slung my bag over my shoulder, and walked out of the private room.
Behind me, voices carried.
Arabella, drying her hair with a towel, chuckled as she clapped him on the shoulder.