POV: Dusten
"Tristan f*****g Cole."
The curse rolled off my tongue as I stood in front of the bathroom mirror.
My reflection stared right back at me.
The scar on the left side of my face.
That f*****g scar.
A gift from my dear wife.
And now, just above it, was another mark.
A healing wound.
A f*****g curtsey from her billionaire boyfriend.
My jaw tightened.
"Who the f**k does he think he is?" I muttered. "Hitting me with a bottle."
I lifted my hand and touched the wound. A sharp sting shot through my skin.
"Fuck." I muttered under my breath.
I pulled my fingers away.
The cut was healing.
Slowly.
But every time I looked at it, I remembered his f*****g face.
That smug look.
That stupid confidence.
That certainty that he could touch me and walk away—and go free with it.
