Chapter 4
The sudden, brutal violence left Tove completely paralyzed. She stared at her brother, who lay unconscious and bleeding amidst the shattered ceramics and spilled soil. The brilliant white sunlight highlighted the dark red blood pooling on the tile beneath his expensive suit.
Tove looked back at Cullen. The handsome, movie-star quality of his face was entirely overridden by the cold, mechanical expression of an executioner. He slowly turned his head toward her, the loose strands of his wavy hair falling perfectly over his forehead.
Panic, raw and unfiltered, finally shattered Tove's arrogant facade.
"You're insane!" Tove shrieked, her voice echoing shrilly in the glass room.
Driven by sheer, blind terror, Tove spun around. She grabbed Margaret’s heavy leather handbag from the floor, clutching it to her chest like a shield, and frantically tried to run toward the conservatory exit. Her high heels scrambled for traction on the slick, dirt-covered tiles.
Cullen did not run. He moved with long, deliberate strides, closing the distance in seconds.
Just as Tove reached the heavy glass doors, Cullen’s tattooed hand shot out. He gripped the strap of the handbag and tore it violently from her grasp. The sheer force spun Tove around to face him.
Before she could utter another sound, Cullen drew his arm back and delivered one thunderous, open-handed slap directly across her face.
The impact cracked like a whip. The blow was so incredibly forceful it lifted Tove entirely off her feet. She spun backward, her arms flailing wildly in her elegant formal outfit.
She crashed backward directly into the rolling silver tea trolley.
The heavy metal trolley overturned with a deafening crash. Delicate porcelain teacups and saucers shattered into a thousand pieces. Crisp linen napkins fluttered through the air like surrender flags. Empty silver serving trays clattered loudly, spinning across the conservatory floor in a chaotic cascade of destruction.
Tove collapsed onto the tile, tangling in the white linens and broken china. She gasped for air, clutching her face. The fair, rosy skin of her cheek was already blooming with a dark, angry red handprint.
There was no dialogue. Margaret remained by the wicker chair, holding Mireya tightly against her chest, shielding the little girl's eyes from the carnage.
Cullen stood amidst the wreckage of the tea trolley. He adjusted the cuff of his unbuttoned shirt, his breathing completely even, as if he had merely brushed a piece of lint from his lapel. The bright, cinematic lighting of the room cast long, dramatic shadows around his towering frame.
He slowly raised his cold, intimidating eyes, looking down at the woman he had almost married.
"Cullen... please," Tove whimpered, backing away on her hands and knees, ignoring the sharp porcelain cutting into her palms. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
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"A three-year-old," Cullen whispered. His voice was quiet, raspy, and absolutely lethal. Every measured word sounded like a death sentence. "You broke all the rules. Now, I have none."
Tove’s face became overwhelmingly frightened as the true weight of her actions finally crushed her.
