“What?” I stared at him. “She attacked me. I have stitches. Hospital records. Witnesses!”
He didn’t flinch. “We were told you may be suffering from mental instability. That you have a history of emotional outbursts and exaggerated claims. It was recommended we advise you to speak directly with your husband.”
The air left my lungs.
Troy.
Of course. He owned this city. The police. The hospitals. The narrative.
I had no one. No voice. No power. I was drowning in a sea Troy controlled with a flick of his finger.
I lay back in bed and stared at the ceiling. Hours passed. The day blurred into night.
And then I heard the door click open.
He didn’t knock. He just walked in, still in that same custom-tailored suit, hair perfectly styled, face unreadable.
I sat up.
“Troy—”
“Apologize to Bianca.”
No hello. No concern.
My jaw clenched. “What?”
“You heard me.”
I stared at him. “I was in the hospital. I had stitches. She attacked me.”
“You tried to file an assault case against her,” he snapped. “Do you really think I wouldn’t find out?”
“She hit me with a shoe! She split my head open over a dress and called me a gold digger!”