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“Nothing.” He slides the plastic cup across the table toward me, the mixed whiskey drink sloshing dangerously close to the rim. “Just some woman being friendly.”

“Friendly?” I howl. “She looked like she wanted to climb you right there at the goddamn bar.”

“You’re jealous, darling?” He laughs, taking his first drink.

“No.” I flip my hair behind my shoulder, in what I hope seems to be nothing more than a casual gesture.

He’s obviously happy about my jealousy because he’s right; I am jealous. I tried to sip my drink, but the whiskey burns going down, and it’s not just from the alcohol. When I hunt down her location again, she’s watching me, her look contorting with arrogance.

It makes me want to rearrange her face.

Now I understand what Preston must have felt watching me be with another man. The way it eats at you from the inside, making you want to claim what’s yours in the most violent way possible.

“She’s still looking,” I speak through gritted teeth.

“Ignore her.”

“I can’t. She’s looking at you like you’re a piece of meat—like I’m not right here for fucks sake.”

His fingers hook around mine, tightening around them.

“I just married you, Wynnie. That should tell you everything you need to know; stop worrying about some random woman. I only have eyes for you.”

What he says should be enough. There’s something about her—the confidence she seems to have, certain that she can lure him away from me. She isn’t backing down, and it brings up all the madness I’d managed to shove away.

It reminds me of when I’d have to watch Caleb flirt with girls right in front of me, making me feel small and worthless. All the times I’d swallowed my frustrations because that’s what a good girlfriend did.

I’m not a girlfriend anymore.

I’m Preston Grant’s wife.

I stand so suddenly that the chair scrapes against the floor with a sound similar to nails on a chalkboard. Preston looks up at me, concern flickering across his features.

“Wynnie–”

But I’m already walking, my hands curling into balls at my sides.

I approach the woman at the bar and her caked-on makeup. I could scrape it off with a putty knife if I wanted to—or a real one, for that matter.

She smiles when I stop in front of her. I can tell by the way she looks at me that she’s ready for a fight if it leads there. And you know what? So am I.

“Can I help you, hun?” Her kindness is fake as she places a hand on her popped hip. She looks me up and down, as if she’s sizing me up.

“Yeah,” I scoff. “You can stop eye-fucking my husband.”

Her sardonic smile widened, showing off teeth that are too white to be real.

“Husband? That’s cute. He didn’t seem to be married when he was talking to me.”

“He was being polite. And I’m not when I say cut the shit.”

She laughs, throwing her head back as she looks over her shoulder at her friends. “And what exactly are you going to do about it?”

My fist connects with her jaw before I can even think about what I’m doing. We’re supposed to be keeping a low profile, but I couldn’t not hit her. The impact sends a shock of pain up my arm, and it feels good. Better than good—it’s a release.

She stumbles backward with a surprised yelp, crashing into a bar stool. She recovers faster than I expected, lunging at me before I could throw another punch. Her fake nails rake down my scalp as she grabs for a fistful of my hair.

We both go down hard, hitting the sticky floor with a bone-jarring blow. She’s bigger than me, heavier, but I’m angrier. I roll on top of her, swinging with fervor, landing blow after blow after blow to her face and head. She screams, clawing at me like a wild cat between attempts to block her face.