LAYLA'S POV
Three weeks ago, I would have flinched. I would have backed up and apologised for existing in a space someone else decided I didn't belong in.
One thing they forget is that three weeks ago was a different woman.
The member – low-ranking, emboldened by Megan's protection and by the version of me that arrived here crying in a parking lot – corners me in the lot after dinner. He's been watching me all week with the specific hostility of someone who's been told I'm a problem and has decided to be the solution.
"You don't belong here." He steps closer. "Go back to your husband."
I don't flinch. I don't back up. I look at him with the flat patience I've been developing for weeks – the patience that comes from sitting across a dinner table from a man who poisoned your coffee and
