The moment Emma’s heel clicked against the marble floor near the exit of the Jones estate, Oliver struck like a viper—his hand lashing out to seize her wrist in a bruising grip.
“Where the hell have you been?” His voice was low, venomous—a blade honed by fury and laced with the sting of whiskey.
Emma didn’t flinch. She turned slowly, her gaze icy, cutting through him. “That’s none of your business.”
“None of my business?” He yanked her forward, his face inches from hers, his breath hot with alcohol and rage. “You’re my f*****g wife.”
A bitter laugh escaped her lips, sharp and hollow. “Oh, really? So you still remember that?”
She jerked her arm free, rubbing at the angry red mark blooming across her wrist. “Funny how that title only matters when it’s convenient for you.”
His eyes drop
