off the man standing across from me.

Around us, the charity gala continued to glitter. The grand

illusion of civility remained unbroken. A few feet away, a senator

was deep in conversation with a real estate tycoon, their laughter

carrying over the music. Yet, the atmosphere in our immediate

vicinity had shifted. The air grew dense. People had seen it.

As though I hadn’t just been slammed into a marble wall.

As though the bruise already beginning to spread and darken

beneath my eye wasn’t starkly visible beneath the brilliant lights.

Maybe they noticed. No, not maybe. Every single person in that

quadrant of the room saw exactly what had happened. I saw the

slight pauses in their movements. I saw the way a woman in a

diamond choker abruptly turned her back, her fan fluttering a

little faster. I saw a man in a bespoke tuxedo glance over, take a

slow sip of his champagne, and deliberately shift his gaze to the

ceiling.

They simply decided it wasn’t worth becoming their problem.

To intervene meant crossing the Sterling family. It meant risking

their own standing, their own wealth, their own comfortable little

lives. And for what? A woman they didn't know? A woman who, in

their eyes, had likely done something to provoke the mighty Julian

Sterling?

The man responsible adjusted his diamond cufflinks, the silver

metal catching the light. He rolled his shoulders and smiled. It

wasn't an apologetic smile, nor a defensive one. It was a smile of

pure, unadulterated satisfaction. He was relaxed. Almost amused.

Looking at him, you would think putting his hands on a woman

had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience in an

otherwise enjoyable evening—like swatting a fly away from his

drink.

Then he walked toward me. Slowly. Confidently. The clicking of

his Italian leather shoes on the marble seemed to synchronize with

the beating of the cellos from the orchestra.

“So...” he murmured, his voice dripping with condescension.

His mouth curled into a cruel smirk. He looked me up and

down, taking in my torn sleeve, my disheveled hair, the blood on

my lip.

“Still trying to play hard to get?”

His friends, standing a few paces behind him, erupted into

laughter. It was loud. It was braying. It was utterly devoid of

human empathy.

A few more guests glanced in my direction, drawn by the

noise. They saw the physical evidence of his assault. They saw me

pressed against the wall. Then, just like the others, they looked

away. Back to their drinks. Back to their vapid conversations. Back

to pretending they hadn’t seen a thing.

No one stepped forward. No one challenged him. No one dared

confront the heir to one of the most powerful families in the city.

Because everyone in that ballroom believed the exact same

thing. They believed I was a lamb that had wandered into a den of

wolves. They believed I was alone. Unprotected. Outmatched.

Finished.

I didn't tremble. I didn't cry out for help. Slowly, deliberately, I

reached into the small, beaded clutch resting against my hip. My

fingers wrapped around the cold, sleek metal of my phone.

Julian watched me, his head tilted slightly, an eyebrow arched

in mock curiosity. “Who are you going to call, sweetheart? The

police? Go ahead. The commissioner is drinking my father's scotch