Martin’s voice sliced through the boutique like a blade dipped in ice.
"How dare you hit her."
Clara froze mid-stride, hand still half-raised, palm flushed crimson from the slap she’d just landed. The sharp sting on Fiona’s cheek pulsed hot and angry.
Martin stepped fully into the boutique now, coat still damp from the mist outside, hair slightly tousled, gray eyes locked on Clara with a fury so cold it seed to lower the temperature in the room. The sales associates shrank back against the racks. Custors stared, phones half-raised. The soft jazz overhead suddenly felt obscene.
Clara’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.She knew this man its like he owned this whole city .How does he know Fiona..??
"Martin" she started, voice high and cracking.
He didn’t let her finish.
"Do you have any idea who you just touched?" His tone was quiet, lethal, every word asured like a verdict. "Do you know I can have your whole family imprisoned for what you’ve done?"
Clara’s hand dropped to her side. Her face drained of color so fast it looked like soone had pulled a plug.
"I—I didn’t an—"
"You ant every second of it," Martin cut in, stepping closer. "I saw the look on your face. You enjoyed it. You wanted to humiliate her. You wanted to remind her she’s beneath you."
Fiona stood frozen a few feet away, still clutching the erald dress like a lifeline. Her cheek throbbed. Her heart hamred so hard she felt dizzy. This wasn’t the Martin from yesterday the one who’d let Katherine cling to his arm in front of the entire company.
This was soone else.
Soone who looked at her like she was his to defend.
Soone who looked ready to tear the world apart for her.
Clara took a shaky step back.
"Martin, please. It was just "
"Just what?" He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. "Just a slap? Just jealousy? Just you reminding her she’s replaceable?"
Fiona flinched at the word.
Replaceable.
The sa word she’d used on herself all day.
Martin’s gaze flicked to her brief, burning then snapped back to Clara.
"You don’t get to touch her," he said. "Ever again. You don’t get to speak to her. You don’t get to breathe in the sa room as her unless she allows it."
Clara’s eyes darted to Fiona wide, panicked.
"She’s nothing," Clara hissed, desperation cracking her voice. "She’s just "
Martin stepped between them body shielding Fiona completely.
"Finish that sentence," he said quietly. "Go ahead. Finish it."
Clara’s mouth snapped shut.
The boutique was silent except for the soft jazz overhead and the faint rustle of silk as one of the associates nervously straightened a rack.
Martin turned to Fiona slow, careful.
His hand lifted hesitant now, gentle.
He touched her cheek the sa cheek Clara had struck. His thumb brushed over the red mark, feather-light, like he was afraid of hurting her more.
"Are you okay?" he asked, voice low, only for her.
Fiona stared up at him confused, dazed, heart in her throat.
Why?
Why was he doing this?
At work he’d stood in the lobby with Katherine on his arm, smiling like Fiona didn’t exist.
In the elevator he’d kissed her like she was air he needed.
Today he was here furious, protective, shielding her from Clara like she was his to defend.
She didn’t understand.
And the confusion hurt more than the slap.
She stepped back small, instinctive.
Martin’s hand fell away.
Fiona’s voice ca out small, cracked.
"I’m fine."
She wasn’t.
But she couldn’t say that here.
Not with Clara still standing there, not with sales associates pretending not to watch, not with Martin looking at her like he could see every fracture she was trying to hide.
She turned.
Tried to walk away.
Martin caught her wrist gentle this ti, but firm enough she couldn’t pull free.
"Wait."
Fiona stopped.
Didn’t turn.
Martin’s voice dropped lower.
"Is this where a sick person is supposed to be?"
She stiffened.
He stepped closer close enough she could feel his warmth at her back.
"Why are you not in bed?" he asked quietly. "Did you not call in sick?"
Fiona’s breath hitched.
He knew.
Of course he knew.
Maya would have told him. Or HR. Or he’d checked the system himself.
She tugged her wrist again.
He let go imdiately.
But he didn’t step back.
Fiona wrapped her arms around herself.
"I needed air," she said. "I couldn’t stay ho."
Martin studied her face the red mark on her cheek, the shadows under her eyes, the way she held herself like she was trying not to break.
"You should be resting," he said. "Not... here."
Fiona laughed small, bitter.
"Here is better than pretending everything’s fine."
Martin’s jaw tightened.
He glanced at Clara still frozen, still pale then back to Fiona.
"Let take you ho."
Fiona shook her head.
"I’m fine."
"You’re not."
He took a step closer.
She took a step back.
The erald dress slipped from her fingers, pooled on the floor like spilled ink.
Martin looked down at it.
Then back at her.
"I’ll buy it for you," he said quietly.
Fiona’s eyes flashed.
"I don’t need you to buy things."
"I know," he said. "But I want to."
She stared at him chest tight, throat burning.
"Why?"
Martin’s gaze softened just a fraction.
"Because you are sick and bosses looks after their workers "
Fiona’s laugh was broken.
Damn he shouldn’t have said that.
She shook her head—slow, in disbelief....
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