“Chester! You’re gonna die a horrible death!” he howled.
The bodyguards dragged him toward the door, but he kept shouting, “Chester! If you do this, aren’t you afraid Faye will take revenge?”
I tapped my fingers on the marble table deliberately.
“You need to understand something,” I said, my voice low and controlled. “Just because my wife cares about you doesn’t mean you’ve earned a place in her life.”
...
That night, Faye returned home with dozens of people—an entire floor taken up by her entourage. She would not make such a spectacle unless she had a difficult opponent.
We faced each other across a table that felt more like a battlefield than furniture.
For the first time, she came at me with a blade drawn. We sat at opposite ends of the negotiation table, each backed by dozens of people.
“Twice now.” Her long, knuckled fingers rapped lightly against the marble. “Chester, you should apologize to him.”
But I replied, “That bastard brought it on himself. A fool who barges in has to take responsibility for his recklessness.”
Half of Faye’s face was swallowed by shadow; I couldn’t read her expression.
She folded her hands and studied me.