That. That was why he hated me.
That lie from years ago—it had festered in him like poison.
I was out of options.
Explanations were useless. Tears were useless. Whatever we'd once had was the biggest joke of all.
Crack.
The bottle came down.
White-hot pain exploded through my left hand. I heard bone shatter.
I didn't scream. Didn't cry.
When pain hits a certain point, it just… goes numb.
Blood and wine spread across the white tablecloth in a dark, creeping stain.
Anthony stared at that pool of red. His hand trembled. The bottle slipped from his grip and shattered on the floor.
He didn't expect me not to dodge.
I reached into my pocket with my uninjured right hand and pulled out a check.
Scott's advance from this morning. Fifty thousand dollars.
I slammed it onto the table—blood smearing across the paper, my handprint staining the numbers red.
I met Anthony's eyes. Mine were hollow.
"Mr. Vance."
"This hand pays for your necklace."
"This check covers the rest."
I turned and walked out, dragging my ruined hand behind me. Each step left a drop of blood on the floor.
"We're even."
