Richard’s gaze stayed flinty, unreadable. It skimmed the room once, then snagged on the blood beading across Annabelle’s palm. His jaw ticked—only once.
“To the guest room,” he told a nearby servant, chin nudging toward Abigail.
Britney slid in front of the order, smile sugar-coated and sharp. “No need. Abigail belongs in your bedroom. She’s the future Mrs. Barton. The one who should be packing is—”
“Stay out of my affairs,” Richard said, not raising his voice, just flattening hers. “Return to your hotel. We’re done.”
Her smile cracked, desperation leaking through. “No, i am not going back. You know I’m the one who—”
“Enough.” Richard’s eyes snapped to hers, cold and unyielding. “I won’t repeat myself." His tone was final, dangerous. "Either do as said or go back to LA ."
Britney’s b
