“You don’t understand—my uncle’s methods are ruthless. No one in New York high society dares cross him. Don’t bring disaster on yourself.”
I didn’t know who he thought he was pretending for, but his false concern only made me sick.
“Let go. Stop being an eyesore.”
When he realized I had no intention of yielding, his patience snapped. He reached to drag me out of the car.
“Claire, I told you—this is the Hughes estate. Here, you obey me.”
I slipped out of his grasp with a glare.
“Don’t touch me.”
Perhaps it was the hardness of my tone—or the undisguised disgust in my eyes—that finally made him falter.
Alexander Hughes froze mid-motion, as though some thought had struck him.
“Claire, get out of the car first.”
And why should I ever listen to him?
I hadn’t three years ago, and I certainly wouldn’t now.
The mockery in my eyes was barely concealed.
Tired of wasting breath on him, I kicked Alexander hard, shoving him out of the car, and slammed the door shut.
As the engine roared to life, he tried to chase after me again.
But Isabella Reed clutched at him from behind.
“Alexander, my stomach hurts—my ankle too!”
Only then did his gaze shift back to her.