Bright.
Careless.
Like she had knocked over champagne at a rooftop brunch.
“Oh my God,” she said, pressing a manicured hand over her mouth. “She moved right in front of me. I barely touched her.”
Marcus leaned down near my ear.
His cologne hit me first.
Italian citrus, cedar, money.
“You planned this,” he whispered. “You always were good with timing.”
I turned my head slowly.
He was close enough for me to see the gray at his temple that his publicist always edited out.
Close enough to see the vein pulsing under his jaw.
Close enough to remember the night he proposed at the Bellagio fountains and told me I was the only person in the world who made him feel real.
“You’re going to want to step back,” I said.
He blinked.
Not because I had threatened him.
Because I hadn’t.
Marcus knew yelling.
He knew crying.
He knew bargaining.
He knew women throwing wine, reporters shouting questions, board members begging for another quarter.
But calm scared him.
Calm meant information.
And information was the only thing Marcus Vale respected.
His lead attorney, Bennett Ashford, rose from the defense table with a face like polished stone.
“Your Honor, may the record reflect that Mrs. Vale is refusing medical assistance and attempting to dramatize a minor contact incident?”
A minor contact incident.
