The restaurant broke into shocked noise. Vanessa shrieked and scrabbled at Jonathan’s sleeve, but he didn’t look at her. He turned only once to make sure Clara was on her feet, then faced Adrian like a man who’d finally decided the measure of what he would no longer tolerate.
Adrian—bleeding, humiliated—was a broken image of the man who once stood in the rain begging at Clara’s father’s gate. Now he lay crumpled by the consequences of his own cruelty.
Adrian staggered upright, blood streaking down his mouth, yet he laughed—a broken, manic sound. His finger jabbed toward Clara.
“Jonathan, hit me all you want! Even if you kill me, she’ll still love me. Clara loves me to death—she can’t live without me!”
His eyes burned with madness. “I regret everything, do you hear? I don’t acknowledge that filthy agreement. As long as I don’t sign, she’ll always be my wife. Mine!”
He turned that fevered gaze on her, raw and desperate. “Clara, come home with me. Enough of this nonsense. I promise—no more favoritism. One east wing, one west wing, both of you can live in peace. I was only hard on you to humble your pride. And Snowball—Snowball’s waiting at home. Don’t you miss it?”