For the first time, Andrew’s expression faltered. His smugness cracked for a brief moment, though he quickly straightened and sneered, trying to recover his composure.
“When Victoria arrives,” he said with icy pride, “she’ll slap you down herself.”
He immediately called Victoria, his voice filled with rage:
“Victoria, your man’s causing trouble again. I’ll give you twenty minutes to get here and put him in his place! If you’re late, we’re finished!”
So brazen—he didn’t care if the world knew he was a mistress. Unlike others who pretended with false innocence, he flaunted it. His very attitude screamed: Yes, I’m a mistress. I’m proud of it. And who can say otherwise?
The police had barely arrived when Victoria rushed in, breathless. She instinctively placed herself in front of Andrew, shielding him, her eyes fixed on me with hostility.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
Encouraged by her protection, Andrew swaggered forward, lifted his hand, and struck me across the face.
“You bastard! How dare you call the police on me!”
“I’m spending my woman’s money—it’s natural! What’s it to you?”
His nails cut a bloody mark across my cheek. Still unsatisfied, he lunged again, fists raised.