Oliver’s knuckles whitened around the steering wheel as he sped toward Shelby’s apartment, his mind replaying Emma’s defiance like a broken record.
"You don’t own me, Oliver."
Her words burned in his chest. Since when did she grow a spine? Since when did she dare to raise her voice at him? If not for Shelby’s urgent message, he would’ve dragged Emma back into that mansion by her hair and reminded her exactly who she belonged to.
The elevator ride to Shelby’s penthouse felt like an eternity, each floor crawling past as Oliver replayed the last twenty-four hours in his head.
When the doors finally slid open, Shelby was already there—barefoot, mascara smudged, tears streaking her flushed cheeks. She clutched her phone like a lifeline, hands trembling.
“Babe, you won’t believe what
