Twelve

“Enough now!” commanded the young man, who surprisedly is Mr. McWood, as he strode past the woman sitting beside him. He stopped in front of Grey, who was glaring timidly at me. “You have no right to talk to her like that!”

Grey tore his glare from me, the crowd stiffening in shock. He looked at Mr. McWood, who I vividly remembered as the fashion icon who had dressed me for the wedding. “And who are you?”

“Who I am is none of your business, man. I'll tell you one thing: you have no right whatsoever to speak to her in such a dismissive manner!”

Grey laughed cockily and waved his hand. “I do what I please, alright? Now step aside and let me teach this murderer a lesson.”

A big blow from Mr. McWood landed on Grey’s cheek, his fingers curled together, his glare deadly. Grey, angrily trying to return the blow, was stopped.

I shrank back, trying to get away from them, but Lucien’s man held my wrist while another man moved toward them. Why was Mr. McWood doing this? Why was he fighting for a