Stop There

Selena’s POV

I knew that face.

Dante Harrington.

The first son of the Harrington family. Their heir. The one the tabloids called The Devil of Eastbridge.

He stood at the far end of the hall like he owned the oxygen.

Even with the buzz of conversation around him, the air felt… still. Heavy. His presence sucked the noise out of the room like a vacuum. Dressed in a tailored black suit that looked like it was stitched from silence itself, he was tall, sharp-jawed, and cold-eyed. Those eyes, steel gray and merciless, looked like they’d watched empires burn and felt nothing.

No one smiled at him. No one dared greet him. They only stared In reverence and fear.

Everyone knew the Harringtons. They are not just wealthy, they are untouchable.

They built their empire on weapons, first manufacturing, then global arms trade. After that, they swallowed up international finance and private security, turning old-money families into fossils. When the Harringtons wanted something, they took it. When someone crossed them, they vanished.

And Dante… Dante was their sharpest weapon.

Rumor had it Dante once had a rival tortured for three days in a Croatian warehouse and walked out without a drop of blood on his clothes. Another story claimed a judge who tried to stand in his way ended up bankrupt and hiding out in some forgotten village. Whether it was truth or myth didn’t matter. People feared him. He used that fear like a crown.

My breath caught in my throat. I looked away fast, heart pounding. For a second, it felt like his eyes had locked on mine. No. That couldn’t be. He wouldn’t recognize me. He hadn’t even been there at the trial in court years ago when I got sentenced, only his family’s lawyers were present. He wouldn’t know my face.

Still, that chill in my bones didn’t go away.

Then…

CRASH!

A tray hit the floor with a loud clatter, and cold drenched my front, red wine and soda soaking the thin, borrowed dress like acid. I gasped as the freezing liquid slammed into my chest and stomach. My lungs ignited. The chill pushed deep into my ribs, triggering the cough.

No. Not now.

I doubled over slightly, coughing hard, my lungs convulsing in protest. I grabbed the edge of a nearby table to keep myself upright. My head spun. I couldn’t breathe. I was going to cough to death.

“Oh my days! Miss Selena, why did you make me fall?”

I froze. What?

I looked up, still coughing. The server stood a few feet away, clutching her tray, wide-eyed and fake-concerned. She didn’t even glance at me. She looked at the crowd, like she wanted them to see.

She was blaming me?

Fury bubbled up, cutting through the cough.

This lady tripped over me yet she’s pretending it was my fault that she almost fall.

Her voice rang louder now, drawing more attention, “Won’t you even do the courtesy of apologizing to me?”

I looked at her, stunned. And then I saw it. The performance. The deliberate way she feigned injury. The volume and the timing.

And that slithering feeling in my spine told me exactly who had orchestrated it.

I turned my head. and there she was.

Olivia.

Seated like a crowned queen, head tilted in mock confusion. She moved with theatrical grace, like she’d been waiting for her cue. And this was it. My moment of humiliation. The spill, the cold drink, the violent cough that followed, it had all been part of her plan.

She knew my lungs had never fully recovered from those years in prison, how close I’d come to dying from untreated pneumonia. She knew the cold made it worse, knew I wouldn’t be able to hide the weakness once it was triggered.

She planned this.

This wasn’t an accident.

The wine. The fall. The girl’s lies. All of it were Olivia’s show. Just to watch me cough and choke in front of her perfect little audience.

And now the server wanted me to apologize?

Something snapped.

My hand moved before I thought.

Smack.

The sound of the slap cracked like thunder across the room. The server stumbled back, one hand to her cheek, gasping.

Silence.

Gasps rippled like dominoes. Eyes widened. Phones were probably already out, recording.

I didn’t care.

I turned and stormed out of the hall, my dress soaked through, my breath shallow, chest burning, heart pounding with rage.

They didn’t bring me here for family, or forgiveness, or some fragile sense of closure.

They brought me here to humiliate me.

Olivia wanted me reduced to a scene and she got what she wanted. But what more could she possibly want from me? Hadn’t she already taken everything?

I paused, trying to catch my breath, the chill clinging to my damp skin. Just as I exhaled to steady myself, a sharp voice sliced through the silence like a whip.

“Stop there.”

I froze as heavy, unmistakably familiar footsteps echoed behind me.