Page 220 of Before We Were

That fucker must've sent them to her before I got to him. My fists clench until my knuckles ache, but the pain is distant, meaningless compared to the fury coursing through my veins.

I cut through the crowd like a storm front. Farrah stands with Shay and Harlow and a crew of elite assholes, their laughter grating against my eardrums as she positions her phone for a selfie. Without hesitation, I snatch it mid-pose and slam it to the ground. The screen shatters with a satisfying crack that silences nearby conversations. I grind my heel into the pieces, reducing them to glittering dust.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Farrah's shriek pierces the air.

"What's wrong with me?" My voice emerges as a dangerous growl as I step closer, the scent of her expensive perfume turning my stomach.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Farrah? You threatened her? Do you have any idea??—"

"Don't try to make me the bad guy!" She steps forward, privilege and entitlement radiating from every pore. Her chin lifts in challenge, venom flashing in her eyes. "Maybe if your little charity case kept her legs closed, none of this would've happened."

The room plunges into suffocating silence, the air crackling with tension as every eye fix on us. My jaw clenches so tight it aches, cold fury crystallizing in my chest as I lean in closer, my voice cutting through the stillness like a blade.

"That? Coming from you?" A dark laugh escapes me, loud enough for our audience to hear. Then I lower my voice to a lethal whisper meant only for her. "Take a good, hard look in the mirror, Farrah. You might not like what you see, and trust me, none of us fucking do either."

Her face contorts with rage, and before I can react, her hand flies toward my face. I catch her wrist mid-swing, my grip iron clad. The contact sends a jolt of revulsion through me, but I hold firm.

"I told you last time," I say, my tone deadly calm, "that was the last time you'd ever lay a hand on me. You don't get another chance."

Farrah's lips curl into a venomous smirk, her eyes glinting with calculated malice.

She leans in close enough that I can smell the mint on her breath. "Bet you'd love to hit me, huh? To even the score? We both know you want to." Her smirk deepens as she delivers the killing blow in the form of a whisper. "Just like Daddy does."

The words hit like a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs. My grip falters, hand trembling as rage and restraint wage war inside me.

Before I can do something I'll regret, a blur of motion cuts between us. The crack of Camilla's fist connecting with Farrah's face splits the air like lightning. The sound is sharp, electric, followed by a collective gasp that ripples through the crowd. Farrah stumbles back screaming, manicured hand flying to her face, eyes wide with disbelief as they lock onto Camilla.

“He can’t," Camilla drawls, shaking out her hand with lethal grace, her voice dripping honeyed venom. "But I will. And trust me, I won't hesitate to do it again." She smirks, flipping her dark hair over her shoulder with effortless defiance. "Try photoshopping that out Barbie.”

I make a mental note to never cross Camilla while watching Farrah's fury morph into helpless rage. When she opens her mouth, Camilla steps forward, each word razor-sharp with warning.

"Go ahead. Say something. Give me one more reason to shut you up again. I dare you."

Farrah's mouth snaps shut, her gaze darting around the room as whispers ripple through the crowd like wind through grass. The shift in power is palpable—she's lost, and everyone knows it. Camilla stands tall, fierce and unapologetic, every inch the warrior she's always been.

Ollie's grip on Camilla's shoulders loosens slightly as she raises her hand in mock solemnity. "And just so we're clear, if you come for my friends again just know, I'm not afraid to cut a bitch."

"Oh, we know, Rocky," Ollie chuckles, patting her shoulder with exaggerated care. "Trust me, we know."

"Please don't encourage her," Marcus adds with a long-suffering sigh, but I catch the pride flickering in his eyes.

The tent falls into charged silence, tension humming like a live wire. Every gaze flicks between us, waiting. Farrah stands frozen, her face a mask of barely contained fury, but the fight has drained from her. Her confidence crumbles, leaving nothing but a bruised ego and sharp humiliation. Her eyes dart around the room—taking in Camilla, Ollie, Marcus, the crowd—and realization dawns on her face. She's outmatched, out of moves, and rapidly losing what little ground she has left.

I step forward, my voice cutting through the silence. "Get a fucking life, Farrah," I say, each word heavy with finality. "Stop fucking everyone else's up."

Farrah's glare wavers for a heartbeat before she snatches up the remains of her phone. She storms out of the tent, muttering curses. Shay and Harlow trail in her wake like lost satellites. I watch her go, letting out a slow breath. The tension in my chest loosens slightly but doesn't disappear.

Camilla twists free of Ollie's grip, rolling her shoulders like she's just finished sparring.

"I'm good, I'm good," she mutters, though the satisfied smirk playing on her lips says otherwise.

"Jesus," Ollie runs a hand through his hair, exasperation warring with admiration. "What are you, an underground street fighter or something?"

Camilla's grin turns wicked, her eyes flashing. "I don’t like entitled bitches who think they can bully anyone they want."

"Noted," Ollie replies, hands raised in mock surrender.

Camilla turns to me, her expression softening just enough to remind me why she's one of the few people I trust completely. "Go," she says, jerking her head toward the tents. "Take our girl home."

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