Viktor smashed his wine glass down hard on the marble floor—sharp shards scattering everywhere, red wine spilling out thick like blood under the chandelier's harsh light.
He yelled, "What the fuck is going on?! My company, the one I built with my own sweat and long nights, is falling apart. Everyone online and in the news says we stole Emily's sketches! Stocks are crashing, investors pulling out—it's a disaster!"
"That desperate bitch isn't even that smart," Elena spat, her freshly dyed pink hair glowing bright and garish like cheap candy against her twisted, angry face.
Her manicured nails dug deep into the chair arms, leaving marks. She had seen that look in that raven-haired bitch before—if she was correct, it was that day... on the dining table.
