"What is going on?" Millicent Dillon's voice hit the door before she did.
The suite door smashed open. Millicent stormed in, studs on her shoulder pads cutting the air. Freya hung back, eyes wide. A woman from citrus tabloids shoved a camera into the room and shouted, "Scandal! Scandal!"
I was on top of Garrett Cox with his shirt half off and his face oddly calm beneath my hand.
"Get away from him!" I grabbed the collar and jerked. Garrett didn't move. I leaned down and pressed my fingers to his neck. He was breathing, slow and steady.
"You're alive," I said, stupid and relieved.
Millicent shoved past the photographer and then past Freya so hard her heel clicked on the marble. She stared down at me, then at Garrett, then narrowed her eyes until they were knives.
"You seduced my son's cousin!" she screamed. "You ruined my son's reputation! How dare you—"
Before she finished, Millicent slapped me hard across the face. The sound landed in the suite like a verdict.
"Don't touch my daughter," Freya whispered, but the room was already a chorus of accusing voices. The camerawoman laughed. Someone started recording on a phone.
Garrett's hand rose, quiet and deliberate. The room fell into an awkward silence because he did not shout. He did not rage. He moved like a man who measured every second and decided whether it counted.
"Case," he said, voice flat. "Close the door."
Case Clement
