The chair crashes into my ribs with a sickening crack. I'm on my knees, blood pooling in my mouth, watching that little girl run safely to her mother's arms.
Worth it.
Ethan Pierce stands over me, breathing hard, another chair raised above his head like an executioner's axe. His face is twisted with rage and humiliation.
"Not so tough now, are you?" he snarls.
Around us, the restaurant has descended into chaos. Patrons huddle behind overturned tables, phones recording everything. The maître d' shouts into his phone, probably calling 911.
Through the spinning room, I catch sight of Chloe. She's pressed against the wall, her face pale with shock. But there's something else in her expression—disappointment. Like she's watching her stocks crash in real time.
She believed I was truly powerless. My lack of retaliation convinced her completely.
Ethan's chair begins its downward arc toward my skull. This one will do serious damage. Maybe permanent damage.
