Chapter 377
She closed the distance in two strides. She didn’t slap Yvonne. She didn’t pull her hair. She grabbed Yvonne by the lapels of her expensive blazer and, reading her drunken instability, didn’t try to overpower her — she used Yvonne’s own forward momentum, pivoting sharply on her heel.
“Hey!” Yvonne yelped, losing her balance as she was spun around.
Eliza shoved. Hard.
Yvonne stumbled backward. Her stiletto caught on the uneven edge of the large decorative flower planter outside the building. Her ankle twisted. She flailed, arms windmilling — and then tipped over backward.
Splash.
Yvonne landed squarely in the wet mud and mulch, crushing a bed of petunias.
Silence fell over the street.
Yvonne sat up, sputtering. Mud in her hair. Mud on her face. Her blazer ruined.
“You — you animal!” Yvonne shrieked.
Eliza stood over her, breathing hard. She felt powerful.
“You break my phone,” Eliza said, her voice steady, “I break your dignity. Seems fair.”
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“I’m going to sue you!” Yvonne tried to stand, slipping in the mud. “I’m going to have you arrested!”
“For what?” a male voice asked.
Damon Luna stepped through the revolving doors, flanked by two guards. He looked at the shattered phone on the pavement, then at Yvonne sitting in the mud.
He started to laugh.
“Damon!” Yvonne wailed. “Help me! She assaulted me!”
Damon walked over to Eliza. He picked up her broken phone, examined it, and handed it back to her.
“Looks like an accident to me,” Damon said. He turned to Yvonne. “Get out of my planter, Yvonne. You’re killing the petunias.”
Yvonne gaped at him. “You’re taking her side? She’s a nobody!”
“She’s Eliza Solomon,” Damon said, his voice sharpening. “And you are a mess. Go home, Yvonne — before I call the police for destruction of property.”
Yvonne scrambled out of the planter, dripping mud. She looked from Damon to Eliza, her eyes blazing.
“You think you’ve won,” Yvonne spat. “But you haven’t. Wait until you see him. Wait until you see what he’s become. He’s a monster, Eliza. And he’s mine.”
She limped away, leaving a trail of muddy footprints on the sidewalk.
Eliza looked down at her broken phone. The screen was shattered — a spiderweb of cracks spreading across the white roses.
“Thank you,” she said to Damon, though the words tasted bitter.
“Don’t thank me,” Damon said, watching Yvonne retreat. “I just hate messy women.” He turned to look at Eliza, his gaze intent. “But you — you have fire. I like fire.”
Damon pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to Eliza. “You have mud on your hands.”
Eliza looked down. There was a smear of dark earth on her knuckles from grabbing Yvonne. She took the handkerchief and wiped it away.
“She’s insane,” Eliza said.
“She’s desperate,” Damon corrected. “Fox Industries is tanking. She needs a rich husband, and she thinks Dallas is the golden ticket.” He chuckled darkly. “Poor girl. She doesn’t know she’s betting on a lame horse.”
Eliza paused. “What do you mean?”
Damon leaned against the building and lit a cigarette. “The rumors, Eliza. Haven’t you heard? The Street is buzzing.”
“Rumors about what?”
.
.