Celia smirked.
The memory of the slap was still fresh, still vivid. The way his head had snapped to the side, the way the air had cracked with the force of her palm against his cheek. The stunned silence that followed. The raw, unfiltered shame in his eyes.
'Good.'
That was exactly where he belonged. Beneath.
Her fingers brushed against her cheek absentmindedly as she leaned back in her chair. The sensation of striking him had been… satisfying. A reminder, perhaps, that despite all his pathetic indulgences, all his worthless attempts at playing the part of a man, she owned him.
'Maybe I should do this more often.'
After all, a single slap had done what words never could. It had put him in his place. It had silenced that weak little voice of his, crushed whatever misplaced confidence he had left.
And the best part? No one would question it.
No one would dare look at Celia Everwyn and think she was in the wrong. If anything, they would whisper among themselves—
