Chapter 3: The Slap

Ava

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I back away on my hands and knees till I hit the wall, trying to steady my breathing as flashbacks of "the incident" threaten to take over.

Mr Riggs backs away too, his breath becoming heavier as beads of sweat roll down his floppy cheeks.

“This isn’t … I didn.’t…” He stutters pathetically, looking at me as if I’m going to help him. He turns back to the man, “Mr Sinclair, please.”

Sinclair. I swear I know that name from somewhere, almost like he’s famous, but I can’t put my finger on who he is, and the tension in the room makes it harder to focus on him.

Sinclair crosses the room in two strides, and before I can react, he twists Mr Riggs's hand to his back, his eyes off me entirely, now narrowed at the man I believe he wholeheartedly intends to kill.

“You think it's funny to prey on weak girls?” My head snaps up at him as I hear him call me weak, and just like that, "the incident" leaves my head, replaced with a familiar but safe anger.

“Even worse, you want to attack a woman to steal my money?” He says in a low, measured tone. His ability to be so composed while he nearly snaps off a man's hand is ten times scarier than if he’d burst in here yelling.

Mr Riggs shakes his head frantically, “No, please… I didn’t mean to.”

Without another word, Mr Sinclair wraps his arms around Mr Riggs's neck, so quickly that if I blinked I would have missed it, and Mr Riggs's eyes widen in shock. He makes a brief choking noise before collapsing to the ground, breathless.

Was he just… killed?

Finally, the words that have been lost since this whole thing started find their way out of my throat, and I start letting out a confused "What the hell", but it's quickly muffled by Mr Sinclair’s strong arms.

“Don’t be stupid,” He whispers viciously in my ear. His deep command leaves goosebumps flaring down my shoulder.

Sinclair's grey, brooding eyes catch my green ones, and even though I raise a brow at him, I can't help the small jolt my heart gives. I thought he was beautiful before, but this close, it’s like he’s something godly. I have the sudden urge to paint those stormy grey eyes.

Ya... let's not be attracted to a murderer.

“I’m going to drop my hand, but you must not scream.” He commands.

My eyes dart to Mr Riggs lying motionless on the ground. What if they charge me with attempted murder? I can’t spend so long running from “the incident” just to go to jail. When my eyes flicker back to Sinclair’s, however, something about him makes me feel like I’ll be fine. I push it down, remembering the last man who made me feel safe. But with no other choice, I nod.

The moment his hand leaves my mouth, I whisper-shout, “You killed a man!”

He scoffs, “I wish. It was basic Carotid Sinus Stimulation.”

I blink at him as he rises. When he realizes I have no idea what that means, he looks at me confused. Does he really think that’s something everyone just knows?

“I mean, Miss Allard, that I just caused him to go unconscious. Standard business.”

I scramble to my feet and pat down my dress and hair. I know the fact Mr Riggs isn’t dead should make me feel better, but Mr Sinclair’s casual tone makes that difficult.

“Hold on, you’ve done this before?”

He peers out the window in the door as if he’s trying to find the right time to leave, “Like I said, Miss Allard, standard business. Do you know how many weak girls around New York need to be rescued?”

There it is again, calling me weak of all things. Familiar heat rises in my chest, a feeling of fury that has become normal for me since the incident, and I clench my fists by my side.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I say, crossing my arms across my chest.

He turns to me, unfazed, "I don’t think I stuttered, Miss Allard.”

“Well, maybe you should have.” I retort, stepping closer to him. Even in my heels, I barely pass the middle of his chest, but I've never let that stop me from standing up for myself, and this tree-like man wouldn’t be another bastard that makes me run.

He leans closer as a wave of dark hair falls forward uncharacteristically, “When you were on stage, you completely froze, and when that fool captured you, you simply let him take you. This small display of bravery you’re trying to do right now doesn’t prove you aren’t weak, it just proves you’re stupid. Why do you think I bought your paintings? I needed you to get off stage before you made an even bigger fool of yourself.”

If my anger was ignited before, Mr Sinclair just set it ablaze. I try and find the words to say, but they’re all jumbled in my head in a raging mess.

Instead, I grit out, “Have a good evening, Mr Sinclair, and keep your money.”

He scoffs again, “I promise you I don’t need it, but you certainly look like you do.”

My jaw tightens at his harsh words. I brush past him, rushing back into the world of artists and buyers. It feels like stepping into a different world entirely. Everyone is laughing and talking, no longer paying attention to me and the spectacle I made earlier.

It’s not like I care, not when the words stupid and weak are playing on a loop in my head, each time making me angrier than the last.

I feel Mr Sinclair’s stronghold on my forearm behind me, and this pushes me to my tipping point. Men don’t just get to touch me whenever they please.

I whip around without thinking, and before he can say anything else to me, I slap him across the face.