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His voice cracked with fury.
“I’m done, Anya. I’m not sitting through this bullshit anymore.”
Anya straightened her back, standing still, her eyes cold as ice as they locked onto his. “Alright,” she said, her voice calm but final. “If you don’t want to talk, then walk out. But if you walk out, remember—this is the end.”
His frown deepened.
“This is the end of you and me,” she added with chilling finality. “You walk out, and you’re out. No more talking. No more conversations. No more meetings. Not about Luca, not about us—nothing. You and I will have no relationship anymore.”
Dante’s temper exploded, jealousy burning so hot it threatened to consume him. ‘First, she ruined this perfect fucking evening I planned for us, letting Luca all over us. And now she has the audacity to threaten me, as if I’d die without her?’ His vision darkened, rage flooding through him.
“If that’s what you want, then fine!” he snapped, his voice low and dangerous. “I’m not going to be a part of your fucking harem of men!” With that, he turned and stormed out, slamming the door behind him as if he could escape the fury eating him alive.
Anya stood frozen, her body tense, every muscle locked in place. Her fists clenched, nails digging painfully into her palms. Sheremained motionless, her emotions a chaotic storm inside her. It felt like she was losing control, like everything she’d fought to hold onto was slipping through her fingers.
Then, in an instant, all the strength she’d been clinging to vanished. Her body slackened, as if the weight of it all had crushed her. She turned, numb, and walked back to the table, sinking into a chair. Her chest ached, and she buried her face in her hands, fighting desperately to steady her breath.
“But we’re the gold customers of this restaurant! How can you stop us from coming inside? Get me your manager!” A familiar, annoying voice echoed from the door, and Anya stiffened at the sound.
“I don’t care,” came a cold reply, followed by the sharp sound of fast footsteps as someone stormed inside. “So what if someone has booked the whole place? We’re VIPs— we should be given priority—”
The voice abruptly stopped as it drew closer. “Anya?”
Anya looked up, her body still frozen. Zara stood in front of her, a boy next to her. He was the type Anya would never give a second glance—his shirt unbuttoned too far to expose his chest, a suit barely clinging to him, and that arrogant, disgusting smirk on his face as he casually smoked a cigarette. His arm was wrapped around Zara’s shoulder, leaning in to kiss her ear lightly.
“Mark, look,” Zara giggled, her voice dripping with amusement and cruelty. She tugged his arm like a spoiled child showing off a toy. “This is the girl I told you about—the one my parents picked up off the streets. Pathetic, isn’t she?”
Mark finally lifted his head, bored eyes landing on Anya with casual indifference. But then, something shifted. That lazy gazesharpened, darkened, turning lecherous. His lips curled into a slow, mocking smirk. Anya’s stomach twisted with disgust. She could practically feel the filth of his stare crawl over her skin.
“Get lost, whatever your name is,” Anya muttered, her voice clipped and icy, her posture stiff with restraint.
Zara’s amusement snapped into fury. Her perfectly painted lips thinned into a sneer. “You know exactly what my name is, you bitch. You're a fuckingwaiterhere and still acting like a queen? Get in your lane. Go bring us water.”
She slammed both hands on the table, the sound echoing sharply across the room. A few heads turned. “I said, get the hell up!”
Anya didn’t budge. She sat there, spine straight, expression blank. But the subtle tension in her jaw betrayed the irritation simmering beneath the surface.
Just then, the manager rushed over, clearly flustered, his gaze flitting nervously between them. “Ms. Fox, what are you doing to our guest?”
Zara scoffed, tossing her head back in a loud, derisive laugh. "Guest? You call this penniless bitch your guest?" She gestured at Anya like she was pointing to trash on the floor. "What kind of joke is that?”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Fox. Mr. Wayne,” the manager said stiffly, stepping between them now, a hand outstretched toward the door, “The restaurant is closed to the public today. I’ll have to ask you both to leave.”
Mark bristled at the manager’s touch, his pride bruised, his temper barely hanging by a thread. With a sharp jerk, he shoved the man’s hand away, glaring like a cornered animal. His eyeslanded on the untouched wine bottle on Anya’s table—an easy target.
In a burst of drunken idiocy and wounded ego, Mark lunged forward and grabbed the bottle. Without warning, he slammed it down against the table.
The bottle didn’t just thud—it cracked with a sharp, ugly sound.
Anya gasped and stumbled backward as deep red wine splashed across her cream-colored dress, staining it like blood. The liquid spilled over the table, dripping onto the floor, soaking into the linens.
And then, in the chaos of the moment, the bottle slipped from Mark’s slick hand, striking the table’s edge and shattering into jagged pieces. A sharp shard sliced clean across his palm.
Mark staggered back, staring at his hand in shock as blood began to drip, bright red against pale skin.
“Oh my God, baby!” Zara shrieked, latching onto his arm like a lifeline. Her eyes were wide with panic, but her tone was more drama than concern.
Mark looked like he was on the verge of tears, but he was too stunned to react.