"You want to press your face to my collar forever?" Clarissa Sommer spat, smile hard and sharp enough to cut a camera lens.
"I—" Izabella tried to answer. Her tongue hit a wall. She tasted metal and sleep.
"Look at you," Clarissa said to the lobby crowd as if narrating a joke. "This fake heiress thinks she can play rich."
"Madam Clarissa, please—" a hotel staffer started, hands raised.
"You let her speak," Clarissa said, directing the crowd like a conductor. "She'll ruin the gala. She'll ruin the brand."
Izabella felt someone laugh. She felt a phone lens. She felt herself shrinking and not understanding why her knees were betraying her.
"Don't touch her," a deep voice said behind Clarissa.
Footsteps stopped. A hush went over the hotel lobby the way a blade silences a room.
Clarissa turned slowly, smirk widening into something like predatory delight. "Oh, and who are you?"
"I'm Brooks Vincent," the man said. He said it without heat. The name landed on the crowd and rearranged attention.
"Mrs. Vincent," someone corrected, like a warning.
Brooks stepped forward. He did not smile. He did not raise his voice. He put one mittened hand on Izabella's arm and steadied her.
"She is Mrs. Vincent," Brooks said, his voice calm and cold. "One slur and you answer to me."
Clarissa's jaw tightened. Cameras shifted. Her prepared lines slipped.
"You can't—" she began.
"I can," Brooks said. "Leave."
The word was short, final
