“Running into the real wife and not tucking your tail between your legs, still daring to provoke her—you’re lucky it was only one slap!”
“Exactly. Sluts like you get addicted to playing the victim, acting innocent for sympathy. But we’re not those men blinded by lust!”
Even the onlookers chimed in, their curses growing harsher with every shout.
Chloe, emboldened by the crowd, turned her glare toward my car, fury flashing in her eyes.
“A lowlife mistress like you, driving a car bought with my husband’s money—aren’t you ashamed?” she shrieked.
“Today, I’ll make sure you cough up every penny you’ve stolen!”
She snatched up a brick from the roadside and smashed it into my car, targeting the windows, headlights, and hood without restraint.
“She’s the billionaire’s wife! We can’t let a mistress like her be bullied!” someone in the crowd yelled.
That was all it took. Parents grabbed whatever they could find—sticks, stones, tools—and joined in, striking my car in a frenzy.
But my vehicle was no ordinary car. Outfitted with bulletproof protection, their assault left nothing more than scratches on the surface.
Frustrated, they shouted:
“What kind of car is this? Why is it so damn tough?”