"Apologize to my fiancée, or I'll make sure you regret it!"
The word hit like a fist to the sternum.
He'd just told me the wedding was postponed. And already he was calling someone else his fiancée.
I rushed to the club and found Stewart cradling a delicate, sobbing woman in his arms.
One of Stewart's friends pulled me aside, his face tight with worry.
"Some guys said Vivian was dressed like a hooker. Stewart heard and lost it."
"He's wasted. You need to talk him down."
A client had once harassed me, told me to sleep with him to close the deal.
Stewart hadn't been angry. He'd blamed me for being difficult, said I'd cost him business.
Now here he was, so drunk he could barely stand, yet raging like a wild animal because someone had said one unkind word about Vivian Porter.
Mid-argument, one of the men swung a bottle at Stewart's head.
My body moved before my brain caught up. I threw myself in front of him.
Crack.
The bottle shattered against my forehead. A dull, spreading pain.
Something warm and wet crept down from my hairline.
"You crazy bitch! You jumped in front of me! I didn't touch you!" The man's face went white. He dropped the bottle and bolted.
Glass crunched under his shoes as he fled.