"I'd advise you to know your place, Jocelyn. You know exactly how many women would kill to be Mrs. Sanchez. Keep pushing me, and—"
Jocelyn said nothing.
He stared at her ashen face, and whatever threat he'd been building died on his tongue. He left it at "Rest up," then turned and walked out of the room.
The moment he was gone, Jocelyn had someone dig up every last skeleton in Nellie Harding's closet.
She'd entered the red-light district at fifteen. Latched onto the Sanchez family's eldest son at eighteen. The three years in between produced a list of men long enough to fill a page. Several of them were still prominent figures in Harbor City.
Every damning photo, every sordid detail was fed straight to every media outlet in the city.
The articles lasted less than thirty minutes. Every reposted link turned into a 404 error. Every forum thread was scrubbed clean, as though none of it had ever existed.
The hospital room door was kicked open.
Ivor stormed to her bedside, radiating fury. Every trace of tenderness had been stripped away.
"I warned you not to touch her. You just had to push me, didn't you? You really think I won't do anything to you?"