Suddenly, Chesca burst in from outside, seemingly having heard what happened.
She froze at the sight of her ex-husband—and the unmistakable disappointment in Rockwell’s eyes. In an instant, she understood.
Tears spilled down her face as she threw herself into Rockwell’s arms.
“Rockwell, please, believe me! He’s lying. He forced me to do those things—to satisfy his sick fantasies. He made me sleep with those men, made me say those things to please them!”
Rockwell stood stiffly, letting her hold him without saying a word.
The footage had shaken him. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t bring himself to instantly trust her again.
Seeing that he still wasn’t convinced, Chesca panicked. Her crying became even more pitiful.
“Rockwell, please… Don’t you remember the bruises you saw on me? Those were from him! That bastard used to beat me!”
Looking at the fragile woman in his arms, Rockwell’s heart softened.
“Alright,” he finally said. “I believe you.”
Then he pushed her gently aside, grabbed a nearby painting he had just purchased, and smashed it over the French guy’s head.
“If I ever hear you slandering Chesca again, I won’t let you off so easily.”