Chapter 57
Sabine
I am drunk.
Like, drunk-drunk.
I didn’t realize it until I almost fall face-first into the bathroom stall door while lowering onto the toilet seat. The champagne has hit me all at once.
“Shit.” Trying to relieve myself around my massive dress is almost impossible. How do people do this?
Mission complete, I wash my hands, squinting at the reflection staring back at me.
For absolutely no reason, I reapply lipstick, eyeliner, and blush, giving myself a clownish appearance. When I turn from the sink, I walk right into a pair of blonds who remind me of the stick figures I used to doodle in elementary school, as does the size of their dresses.
“Your nipple is out,” I slur, pushing my way between them.
“What the?—”
The other gasps in horror. “Oh my freaking G?—”
Grinning, I push out the door, but then I wobble on my heel, which slaps the smartass smirk right off my face.
I’m turned around. Both ends of the hallway disappear into shadows. From which end did I come from?
A young couple is giggling in the distance, so I turn in that direction and sway down the plush carpet. The end leads to another hallway, and another, until I find myself back in the ballroom—on the opposite end from where I left Astor.
I don’t see him anywhere. The lights have dimmed, and the crowd is making their way to the tables.
How long have I been gone?
“Ma’am.”
A tall, attractive man with wavy blond hair rises from a barstool. Of course I wandered to the damn bar.
“Would you like my seat?”
“Uh ...” I scan the crowd, and when I still don’t see Astor, I shrug. He’ll find me, and also, these heels are killing me, so yes I’d love a seat.
“Sure, thanks.”
The man takes my hand as I awkwardly gather my dress so that I can perch on the teeny-tiny stool. He reminds me of one of the Marvel heroes from the movies. Handsome, but in a bashed-up kind of way. Not nearly as prim and proper as the rest of the crowd.
He’s sexy, I decide.
“What are you drinking?” he asks.
“Just water for now.”
“Water? Nonsense.” He snaps his fingers to the barman. “Two glasses of champagne.”
“And a water,” I croak. “Please.”
Mr. Marvel leans against the bar and smiles down at me. “I noticed you when you walked in.”
“I didn’t notice you.”
His brow cocks, and he chuckles. “Name’s Edgar.”
“Sabine.” I look over his shoulder, searching for Astor once again. A feeling of unease creeps through the haze of the alcohol.
“Where are you from, Sabine?”
“Vegas.”
Where is Astor?
“Vegas, huh? You must be a performer with that body.”
Ick. And no, I manage a billionaire’s illegal assets, you twat. Correction—managed. As in, past tense. Now I have sex with a man who kidnapped me and pretend it’s totally normal.
Where is he?
The champagne and water are delivered, although I don’t reach for either. Marvel picks up his drink and rests the other on the back of my stool.
Again, I scan the crowd, suddenly beset with an awareness, an instinct, that sends a chill racing over my arms.
Sabine, do not leave me.
I turn back to the bar and am gathering my dress to stand when Edgar is suddenly yanked backward. His bar stool goes flying. He gasps, his eyes round like golf balls as he is lifted off his feet and thrown to the floor like a bag of trash.
All eyes turn to us.
I practically fall off the stool as Astor fills my vision, his face mottled with hives, his eyes wild with rage. “Time to go.”
“Astor, watch out!”
Edgar, now off the floor, swings a vicious punch, missing Astor’s head by a mere inch.
A woman screams.
Someone yells, “Fight!”
Another cries out, “Call the cops!”
All hell breaks loose.
I stumble backward as Astor’s fist connects with Edgar’s face in a sickening sound of crunching bone. Blood splatters everywhere.
The man doesn’t go down at first. With a river of blood running down his face, he rushes Astor, sending him slamming against the bar. Glasses and bottles go flying, shattering against the walls, the floor.
I see the moment Astor snaps. The moment he turns into a different person. And it is terrifying.
Like a machine on fast-forward, Astor engages in some insane mixture of martial arts and street fighting. He delivers a devastating right hook, immediately followed by a fist to Edgar’s stomach. As Edgar doubles over in pain, Astor grabs his head, rears back, and slams his knee into Edgar’s face, sending his head snapping backward and his body launching into the air. Edgar hits the floor like a dead weight, his face a bloody mush. He’s knocked out cold.
It’s absolutely horrific.
Astor grabs me by the arm and pulls me across the floor, screaming at everyone who is rushing him.
“Stop,” I yell repeatedly at him, pain rocketing up my shoulder.
He spins around and yanks me to him so hard that my head snaps back. “Shut up! This is your fault—I told you not to leave!”
One shoe tumbles off, then the other, as I am dragged outside. I’m vaguely aware of someone yelling, “Help her, help her!”
The limousine is already at the curb when we rush outside. A woman screams when she sees me, and it’s then that I realize that Edgar’s blood is all over me—even my face.
Astor literally shoves me into the back of the car and ducks in after me.
The car peels out, speeding down the road.
“What the hell was that?” I manage to choke out through heaving breaths.
Astor doesn’t answer. I’m not even sure he heard me. His eyes are wild, his jaw locked, his neck flushed and speckled with blood. His chest is rising and falling heavily.
He looks like a monster. An animal.
“You were supposed to come back to me, Sabine.” His threatening tone sends a chill up my spine.
“Astor.” I gawk at him. “We were just talking.”
“Never, ever!” he bellows, and I jump out of my skin. “Never again! You are mine, do you understand? You are mine, and I will treat you accordingly!” He grabs my arm and twists it so hard that my skin burns. “I love you, Sabine. I fucking love you, and it makes me fucking crazy. Seeing you with another man—I can’t. I won’t. That will never happen again. Ever.”
“Astor.” A chilly calmness comes over me. “Get your fucking hands off me.”
We don’t speak the entire four-hour flight home.
Once inside the manor, I hightail it to my room.
Ten minutes later, Astor appears in the doorway.
“I’m done,” I say, tears streaming down my face. “You lied to me when you told me you would never treat me like that again. I’m done with this, and I’m done with you. I can’t handle the crazy roller-coaster mind-fuck that is Astor Stone. Tomorrow morning, I’m going home. Not that you’ll care, right? Because if you did, you wouldn’t treat me like that. Hell, you said it yourself—no one would care if I left.”
Despite the anger, I break into uncontrollable sobs.
“I can’t do this anymore, Astor. I’m done. I’m done with you.”
And with those final words, I lunge forward, push him into the hallway, and slam the door in his face.