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The guard turns to her. And something inside me snaps into place.

Cold. Controlled. Lethal.

Oh, absolutely fucking not.

I don't know what Celeste said.

I don't care.

But if that woman has somehow convinced security that Layla doesn't belong here—that my date doesn’t belong.

The woman I personally brought into this room.

The woman wearing a gown I paid for because I was the asshole who changed her plans at the last minute.

The only person in this entire ridiculous ballroom I actually want to spend my evening with.

No. Not happening.

I quicken my pace.

Apparently, Celeste Turner is about to learn something she should've figured out years ago.

I don't like people fucking with what's mine.

And whether I'm ready to admit exactly what Layla Hawthorne is becoming to me or not, one thing is suddenly crystal fucking clear.

Anyone who comes after my Firecracker?

Deals with me.

Chapter 13

Layla

I simply meant Mitchell has a particular type. And you're definitely not it.

There it is. The ugly little blade she wanted to slide between my ribs. And judging by the expectant look she gives her newly acquired audience, I'm supposed to be humiliated now.

Unfortunately for her, someone else already tried that today. And I'm developing scar tissue.

I pick up another tiny pastry. She looks scandalized.

“That's fascinating.”

She frowns.

“What is? And are you really going to eat that?”

“It’s fascinating that you know so much about Mitchell's preferences. And yes, I eat when I’m hungry.”

Something flashes across her face.

Jealousy.

Oh. Well, now. That's very interesting.

“I've known Mitchell for years.”