Bryant turned slowly. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes burned with something terrifying. "What the hell are you doing here, Geoffanie?"
My breathing was ragged. "You… you can’t do this."
His jaw twitched. "Go back to the car."
I shook my head. "Not until you stop this."
His patience snapped. "You think I’ll let another man look at what’s mine?" His voice was sharp, cutting through the tension. "You think I’ll let them admire you like some prize?"
Before I could reply, a sharp, searing pain tore through my abdomen.
I gasped, clutching my stomach.
Bryant’s expression changed instantly. "Geoffanie?"
A wave of nausea hit me. The pain was unbearable.
His arms were around me before I collapsed. "Get the car!" he barked at his men.
Everything blurred.
The last thing I saw was Bryant’s face—his mask of control replaced by something I had never seen before.
Panic.
Fear.
Regret.
When I woke up, the hospital room was dim. My body felt weak, empty.
Bryant sat beside my bed, his face pale, his eyes red. He had been crying.
My throat was dry, my voice hoarse. "Bryant… what happened?"
His hands clenched into fists. He took a deep breath, but it shook.
And then, he shattered.