Still unsatisfied, I ground my heel into the broken pieces, twisting until nothing remained but shattered glass and twisted metal.
I looked up, scanning the room with a glare so sharp it could cut.
My voice came out low, deadly. "If you don't shut up, the next thing to rot will be your mouths."
The event hall went silent.
No one moved. No one dared.
Maybe they didn't fear a cripple. But they feared a madwoman—a madwoman who had just defied Dylan to his face, unflinching and violent.
Even Dylan's bodyguards, stationed to keep me in check, hesitated.
They hung back, unwilling to come any closer, reluctant to test me.
...
Dylan and Amara were already on their way to the hospital, sitting in the luxury car arranged by the banquet organizers. What they didn't know was that I had hidden cameras inside the vehicle, recording everything, and capturing every word and glance.
Amara, her cheeks streaked with fake tears, leaned in close to Dylan, playing the damsel in distress.