Clarice glared at Jameson, disbelief etched on her face. "I never imagined you'd stoop this low." As she shifted, the sleeves of her blouse fell back, exposing the vivid bruises encircling her wrists.
Jameson’s eyes narrowed. “What happened to your wrist?”
"I told you, I was in danger last night." Clarice bit back the urge to confront Jameson about Naomi, keeping her tone even. "It was Mr. Morris who saved me."
At the mention of Ivan Morris, the brief glimmer of concern in Jameson's eyes was replaced with seething jealousy. "Morris, Morris!" he snapped. "Every time we meet, you can't stop bringing him up. Is he so perfect that you need to rub it in my face?"
Jameson lunged forward, his hand clamping tightly around Clarice’s bruised wrist.
Clarice gasped in pain, her sharp cry cutting
