Chapter 8
The bright colors of the conservatory seemed to blur around Tove as she found herself entirely at the mercy of Cullen Ravello. She stared up at his angular face, the high-bridged nose, the neatly trimmed stubble, and the cold, sharp eyes that promised absolute ruin.
"Please, Cullen," Tove begged, her voice trembling violently. "I'm sorry! I didn't know the asthma was that bad! I thought she was just acting! I swear to God, I didn't mean to hurt her!"
"You threw... her medicine," Cullen said, the controlled pauses between his words stretching like tightening wire. "You put your hands... on my mother. And you laughed."
"I was stressed! The wedding planning, the merger... it was just a mistake!" Tove cried, hot tears spilling down her fair, rosy cheeks, ruining her flawless makeup. She reached out, trying to touch his chest, trying to access the romantic charm that had seduced her months ago.
Cullen did not allow her fingers to make contact.
With a movement so powerful and swift it defied comprehension, Cullen brought his right hand up. He delivered one thunderous, devastating open-handed slap directly across Tove’s beautiful face.
The impact sounded like a bullwhip cracking in the enclosed glass room.
The sheer, overwhelming masculine force behind the strike was catastrophic. Tove’s eyes widened in sheer shock for a fraction of a second before the kinetic energy lifted her entirely off her expensive high heels.
She spun violently backward, completely out of control, her elegant formal outfit twisting around her frame. She hurtled backward across the polished tiles, flying directly toward the massive, rolling silver tea trolley positioned near the center of the room.
Tove crashed into the heavy metal trolley with a deafening, metallic slam.
The trolley instantly overturned under her weight. A catastrophic explosion of fine china and silver erupted into the air. Dozens of delicate porcelain cups and saucers shattered explosively against the floorboards. Pristine white napkins scattered through the bright room like frightened doves. Empty, heavy silver serving trays bounced and clattered wildly across the conservatory floor, creating a chaotic symphony of destruction.
Tove collapsed heavily onto her side amidst the wreckage, groaning in profound agony. Her fair skin was marred by a vivid, rapidly swelling red handprint that covered the entire left side of her face. She lay curled in a pathetic ball among the broken teacups and scattered silver, her arrogance and aristocratic superiority completely annihilated.
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There was no dialogue. The overwhelming, brutal reality of the violence silenced the room entirely.
Cullen stood amidst the wreckage of the tea trolley, his breathing perfectly steady. He slowly adjusted his cuffs, the artistic tattoos on his hands flexing slightly. He looked down at the woman who had thought she could rule his house, his face an unreadable mask of cold, flawless stone. The bright, cinematic sunlight illuminated his absolute dominance over the broken Mercer siblings.
