She sized me up, her voice dripping with mockery. "I thought you were someone important. Turns out, you're just the useless woman Dylan tossed out three years ago."
"What now? One leg isn't enough?" the woman sneered. "You want him to break the other one, too?"
Then, a few men stepped forward, blocking my escape.
I could hear their low chuckles, the kind that tried to intimidate.
"So, you're the former ballet lead?" one of them said, chuckling. "Can't dance with a broken leg, so you've turned to fighting now? Don't you get it? Everyone knows Mr. Hartman pampers Miss Ridley. If you touch her today, you're touching Mr. Hartman's lifeline."
Their insults and mockery didn't faze me. I was used to it. I wasn't afraid anymore.
I paid them no mind, instead focusing on Amara. Even as his fiancée, there were definite advantages to being Dylan's fiancée.
Publicly, the woman who once manipulated me with a false show of weakness threatened to ruin my remaining leg.
But Amara had forgotten one thing: I don't let people trample me.
In front of everyone's gaze, I took out a handkerchief and calmly wiped the spot where I had touched Amara's hand.