Chapter 172 - 171 No Need to Tell My Husband
[ EMILY ]
The absolute, paralyzing shock on Naya Zone’s flawless face is a masterpiece to behold.
The heavy, suffocating silence in the upscale French bistro lobby stretches into a second, then a third. The wealthy patrons standing near the mahogany bar have completely abandoned their hushed conversations and expensive cocktails to watch the spectacle. No one speaks to the daughter of the presidential frontrunner this way. They cower. They apologize. They bend the knee to the massive political machine her family commands.
My blunt, uncompromising words shatter her long-held, delicate sense of superiority into a million jagged pieces on the polished hardwood floor.
Naya’s blue eyes widen, completely derailed by the sheer audacity of my counterattack. She opens her bright red mouth, but the arrogant, aristocratic command is gone, temporarily replaced by a sputtering, breathless indignity. I can see the gears grinding behind her eyes as she desperately tries to rebuild her shattered armor.
"You think you are so brave," Naya finally hisses. The meticulously crafted high-society polish completely melts away, exposing the vicious, deeply insecure girl hiding underneath. She crosses her arms over her crimson designer dress, her knuckles turning white. "The only reason you dare to stand here and run your mouth to me is because you have Alistair Wolfe’s bastard growing inside you. You think a fetus makes you bulletproof. You think that child gives you the right to look me in the eye."
I do not raise my voice. I do not need to. The quiet, freezing iron in my tone is far more lethal than her shrill hysteria.
"I do not need a pregnancy to point out a basic, empirical fact, Naya," I reply, holding my ground with absolute, unyielding posture. "I am simply stating what everyone in your elite circle already knows but is too terrified to say out loud. Aside from having a prominent politician for a father, you have no real achievements of your own. You contribute absolutely nothing to this city except hot air and the heavy stench of your designer perfume."
A collective, audible gasp ripples through the crowd of onlookers gathered near the bar.
Naya’s skin flushes a deep, mottled purple. The veins in her neck bulge against her diamond choker. She is practically vibrating with raw, unadulterated fury. She takes a step forward, a vicious, ugly smirk twisting her lips as she decides to turn this into a public execution of my pride.
"Let’s see it, then," Naya provokes, gesturing dramatically toward the terrified hostess and the empty corridor leading to the VIP dining area. Her voice is dripping with toxic sarcasm. "I want to see exactly how a cheap, uneducated street rat manages to secure a premium private room in Asuir City over the future First Daughter. Go ahead, Emily. Let’s see your non-existent leverage at work."
A heavy, calloused hand gently touches my elbow.
Leo leans down. The towering special operations veteran has been watching the entire exchange with cold, shark-like intensity. His broad shoulders tense under his pitch-black tactical gear. He recognizes that the social altercation is rapidly escalating toward a volatile breaking point.
"Emily," Leo murmurs, his deep voice pitched so low that only I can hear him over the ambient noise of the lobby. "This woman is highly unstable, and her political connections present a significant, unpredictable liability. I can have Mr. Wolfe on an encrypted line in less than ten seconds. Give the word, and he will handle the Zone family."
The offer is incredibly tempting. One phone call to Alistair, and his massive corporate empire would drop onto this bistro like a nuclear bomb. Naya would be humiliated and forcibly removed before I could even blink.
But I shake my head. I do not look away from Naya’s furious blue eyes.
"No," I tell Leo, my voice firm and resolute. "There is absolutely no need to tell my husband. I refuse to be the helpless damsel running to Alistair every single time a spoiled brat throws a public tantrum. I can handle this myself."
I drop my gaze from Naya and look directly at the young hostess, who looks like she is about to faint behind the mahogany podium.
"Get the general manager," I instruct the hostess, bypassing her completely. "I am not arguing with a receptionist over a confirmed reservation. Go to the back office, find the owner of this establishment, and bring him here right now. We are going to resolve this dispute through proper, professional channels."
The hostess practically trips over her own feet as she turns and sprints down the corridor, desperate to escape the crossfire.
Naya watches the girl run, and her vicious smirk deepens into something truly vile. She realizes I am trying to handle the situation using standard business protocol, and she decides to drag the confrontation straight into the gutter.
"Oh, you want the owner?" Naya laughs. It is a harsh, grating sound. Her vocabulary takes a sudden, incredibly vulgar turn, completely shedding any remaining illusion of high-society class. "What is your grand strategy, Emily? Are you going to spread your legs for the general manager too? Is that how a gutter tramp secures a table in a premium restaurant? Who else in this city are you servicing on your knees to get your way?"
The sheer, unfiltered obscenity of her insult hangs heavily in the air. The wealthy patrons standing nearby physically recoil, deeply offended by the filthy language polluting their expensive lunch hour.
I do not react to the vulgarity. I let it sit there, highlighting her absolute lack of dignity.
"For someone who boasts endlessly about her pristine pedigree," I say calmly, my voice laced with profound pity, "you certainly have a remarkable command of alleyway vocabulary. Are you absolutely sure you are ready for the White House press corps, Naya? They might not appreciate your gutter-trash dialect on national television."
The crowd actually murmurs in agreement.
That is the final, agonizing straw.
Naya’s eyes go completely wild. The rational, calculating part of her brain completely shuts down, entirely consumed by blinding, humiliated rage. She lets out a sharp, breathless shriek and lunges forward.
She raises her right arm high into the air, her heavy gold bracelets clattering loudly against each other. Her manicured hand arcs downward, aiming a vicious, full-force slap directly at my face.
I brace myself for the impact, refusing to step backward.
But the impact never comes.
At the very last millisecond, the survival instinct hardwired into Naya’s brain kicks in. She is unhinged, but she is not entirely suicidal. Even in her blind rage, she remembers who holds the leash. She realizes that physically striking Alistair Wolfe’s pregnant wife in a public venue will result in her immediate, absolute destruction. Alistair would ruin her father’s political campaign by sunset and have her thrown into federal prison. She doesn’t dare touch me.
But her hand is already in motion. The violent momentum demands a target.
She pivots her arm sharply to the right.
*Crack.*
The sickening, sharp sound of flesh striking flesh echoes like a gunshot through the silent bistro lobby.
Naya’s open palm connects violently with Leo’s jaw.
The towering security operative does not even flinch. His head barely moves a fraction of an inch from the impact. He just stands there, an immovable mountain of muscle and tactical discipline, staring down at her with dead, emotionless eyes. He is trained to absorb violence without retaliation unless explicitly ordered.
But me?
The icy, serene calm I have been maintaining shatters into a million pieces.
My pulse roars in my ears. The blood rushes to my head so fast my vision physically narrows. She just struck my protector. She just struck a man who has shown me more genuine loyalty, respect, and care in the last few weeks than my own biological family showed me in twenty years.
A cold, terrifying fury grips my chest. Naya Zone just made the worst mistake of her miserable life.