He doesn’t hesitate as he crosses the ballroom, weaving through the crowd until he’s right there, cornering me against the champagne tower. His smirk is the same one he wore the day I left him.
“Amelia.” He drags out my name, savoring it. “Didn’t think I’d see you here. You still know how to make an entrance.”
I grip my glass tighter. “Get the fuck out of my way, Jax.”
He chuckles, leaning in close enough for his cologne to choke me. “You always did get sharp when you were nervous. Cute.” His gaze intentionally drifts down my dress, lingering where it shouldn’t. “But look at you now—polished up like a trophy. Whose idea was it, hmm? Yours? Or is your new husband parading you around, pretending you’re respectable?”
My stomach knots. “Eat shit, Jax. Your manipulation shit won’t work on me anymore.”
He smirks wider and ignores me. “Silk, diamonds, a little smile for the cameras… Baby, you almost had me convinced. Almost. But I know better. Under all this?” His hand slides boldly along my bare arm, possessive, as if staking his claim. “You’re still mine. You’ll always be mine.”
Rage burns fiercely in my chest as I struggle to breakfree from his hold. “I was never yours. You lost that the moment I left.”
His eyes flash, as if he enjoys the fight. “Oh, sweetheart. You don’t get it. Men like me don’t lose. We let go when we’re bored.” He leans in closer, his voice dropping, filthy and cruel. “And judging by the way you’re shaking, I’d say you’re still hungry for it.”
I choke on the bile rising in my throat, every nerve screaming at me to lash out, to shove him, to cry. But before I can move, before I can even breathe—A shadow falls over us.
Maverick.
His blue eyes stay fixed on Jax as his hand slides around my waist, pulling me close against him.
“Is there a reason your hands are on my wife?” His voice is calm, low enough that it forces Jax to lean closer to hear.
Jax smirks, unfazed, raising his hands in mock surrender, but his eyes stay on me. “Relax, quarterback. Just catching up with an old friend.”
Maverick’s lips curl into a smile that’s all teeth. “You don’t catch up by putting your hands where they don’t belong. Do it again, and you won’t have any left.”
Jax tilts his head, his eyes slowly sweeping over me. “I’ve seen you play, Hayes. Impressive footwork.”
Maverick doesn’t miss a beat. “Appreciate it, man. But I’d appreciate it more if you looked at me and not my wife when you spoke.”
Jax completely ignores him, his eyes fixed on me as if Maverick isn’t even there. His mouth curves into a smile, biting his lower lip. “Miss you, baby, even though you’d always bitch and moan about everything.”
My spine stiffens instantly as my breath falters in mythroat, nausea rising quickly—the champagne flute in my hand shakes between my trembling fingers.
Maverick moves instantly, stepping in front of me, his arm pressing me firmly behind the shield of his body. His voice is flat, cold in its calmness. “That’s enough.”
Jax chuckles. “Come on. What? You gonna punch me in a ballroom?”
Maverick doesn’t hesitate. “If you keep talking to my wife like that, yeah, I will. And I won’t lose sleep over it.”
Jax only laughs, leaning casually on his heels. His eyes drift over me again as he wets his lips. “Thought so. All muscle, but a fucking pea of a brain.”
I feel Mavericks’ back muscles tighten as he lifts his arm and swings.
His knuckles crack against bone, a sickening smack that echoes over the music. Jax’s head whips sideways, blood spraying across the marble floor as he stumbles and crashes down, clutching his nose.
Gasps burst out around us, sharp and frantic. Champagne flutes break as people recoil. The press surges like vultures, cameras flashing rapidly.
“Maverick Hayes just punched?—”
“Is that her ex?”
“Holy shit?—”
Shutters click as the ballroom flashes with bursts of white light. Phones are raised to record, voices gasping ‘Oh my God’ while whispers swirl through the chaos.
Jax groans on the floor, blood drenching his smug expression, staining the silk of his tie. Maverick stands over him, chest rising and falling, as he shakes his hand from the punch.
