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I want her to hear this part too.

“She is intelligent. Beautiful. Funny. Infuriating. And more fascinating than every other person in this ballroom combined.”

Then I turn back to Celeste.

“Especially a spiteful, spoiled brat who apparently can't handle being rejected.”

Celeste pales.

“Mitchell—”

“It's Mr. Knight to you, Miss Turner.”

Well.

“And if anyone in this room has a problem with Layla being here, they have a problem with me.”

Nobody says a word.

Not one.

Mitchell looks at the security guard.

“Is there any confusion remaining about whether Miss Hawthorne belongs here?”

“None, sir. Apologies.”

“Good.”

Then he addresses the people who have gathered around us.

“I hope that clears things up.”

Oh, it fucking clears things up.

Celeste's eyes shine. Angry. Humiliated. And when she looks at me, I see pure hatred.

Mitchell sees it too. He moves closer. Not enough to shield me. Just enough to make the message unmistakable.

“And Celeste?”

She looks at him.

“If you bother Layla again, you won't be dealing with her.”

His voice drops.

“You'll be dealing with me.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“No.” His smile is cold. “I'm saving you the trouble of wondering what happens next.”

Jesus.

Celeste turns on one silver heel and walks away. Her audience scatters almost instantly.

Cowards.