Anthony strode over, checked Audrey's wrist, then turned to me. "Layla, are you looking to die?"
The injustice—the bone-deep cold—made my whole body shake. "I didn't push her. She spilled it on herself."
"Why would Audrey spill red wine on herself?" He sneered. "Apologize to her."
No trust in his eyes. Only disgust.
Audrey tugged his sleeve, her voice soft. "Anthony, forget it. Layla didn't mean to. So many people are watching…"
His gaze on me turned colder. "Don't make me say it twice."
Whatever backbone I once had—whatever self-respect—had long since crumbled to dust in front of this man.
I bent toward Audrey. "I'm sorry, Ms. Swanson. I wasn't careful."
Anthony wasn't satisfied that I gave in so quickly.
He pointed at the row of liquor on the table. "Since it was 'not careful,' drink these to make up for it. Finish them, and we'll let this go."
Five or six bottles of hard liquor.
I looked up at him. "Mr. Vance, I have a serious stomach condition. If I drink that, I'll have internal bleeding."
"That's your problem."
He wrapped his arm around Audrey and walked away without looking back.
Everyone watched.
With trembling hands, I picked up the first glass.