Three Slaps
ARIANA’S POV
I was seated behind my desk, finally starting to feel like the world had stopped spinning, when the door to my office burst open so violently that the handle slammed into the wall.
Joan was right behind her. “I told her you were busy! I tried to stop her, I swear—”
“It’s okay,” I said, my voice as calm as a lake on the surface—even though the sudden tension in the air made my blood pressure spike.
Joan hesitated in the doorway, casting a wary glance at the woman now standing inside like she owned the place.
Beatrice.
Of course.
Her red designer heels clicked once on the tile as she turned slightly, smirking at Joan like she was something she’d stepped over.
I looked at my assistant and gave her a small nod. “Thank you, Joan. You can close the door.”
Joan gave Beatrice one last look—somewhere between sympathy and good luck, bitch—before backing out and gently pulling the door shut behind her.
Silence settled over the room like a thick, choking fog.
Beatrice didn’t move.
She stood there, arms folded, sharp eyes fixed on me with open hatred.
I didn’t flinch. I didn’t shrink.
I just sat there, spine straight, hands folded on my desk.
“You didn’t make an appointment,” I said evenly.
“Why won’t you get it?” she hissed. “Hardin doesn’t belong to you.”
I let that hang there for a beat.
And then, slowly, deliberately, I rose from my chair.
My heels clicked softly against the hardwood floor as I came around the desk.
I didn’t raise my voice.
I didn’t lunge.
I just stopped a breath away from her, chin lifted, eyes level.
“Say that again,” I said, voice low.
She blinked.
“I—”
The first slap landed before she could finish.
The sharp crack echoed through the room like a whip.
She stumbled slightly, one hand flying to her cheek.
Her eyes went wide.
“That’s for drugging my boyfriend,” I said coldly.
Her mouth dropped open.
The second slap was even harder.
“That's for thinking you can separate us."
The third slap snapped her head sideways.
“And that,” I seethed, “is for thinking you could waltz into my office and act like you're some superior bitch.”
Beatrice reeled back a step, stunned.
“You’re crazy,” she gasped, touching her burning cheek. “You’ve lost your mind!”
I smiled, but it wasn’t warm.
It was the kind of smile that made people nervous.
“Crazy? Maybe. But not stupid,” I said. “Did you really think we wouldn’t find out? That no one would connect the dots between you, the bartender? That I wouldn’t realize what you were trying to pull—making it look like he cheated?”
Her face twisted into something ugly. “You’re delusional.”
“No,” I said, stepping closer, “you’re pathetic.”
She opened her mouth to protest again, but I didn’t give her the chance.
“You’re nothing but a low-grade woman with designer handbags trying to pass herself off as something shiny. But underneath all the labels and lip fillers? You’re still just that insecure little girl trying to claw her way into relevance.”
Beatrice’s eyes burned now. With rage. With humiliation.
“Say whatever you want,” she spat. “At the end of the day, Hardin’s family will never accept you. You’re a Miller.”
I stiffened—but only for a second.
Then I smiled again, sweeter this time. Meaner.
“Oh, then go marry his mother,” I said lightly. “You seem to be on the same page.”
That made her snap.
She lunged forward, hand raised.
But I was faster.
I caught her wrist mid-air—then yanked.
She gasped as I dragged her forward by the arm, one hand buried in her hair.
She stumbled, eyes wild, heels slipping on the polished floor as I bent her head just enough to whisper into her ear.
“If you ever—and I mean ever—raise your hand to me again, or even look at my man like you have a claim, I’ll ruin you,” I whispered. “Not figuratively. Not emotionally. Actually. And trust me when I say—I’m not bluffing.”
She was frozen. Shaking.
Her perfume was cloying and cheap beneath the designer label.
I shoved her arm away and stepped back, smoothing my dress like she was a wrinkle I’d just ironed out.
Then I looked her dead in the eye.
“You’re dismissed, Beatrice.”
She blinked, her chest heaving.
“I have more important things to do,” I added calmly, walking back toward my desk.
But she didn’t leave.
Not yet.
Not before twisting the knife.
“Do those important things…” she said slowly, her voice suddenly silky, venomous, “involve William?”
I turned.
My mouth opened.
But she was already at the door.
Already yanking it open with a grin on her swollen lips.
And then she was gone.
Gone—but the storm she left behind was very much still here.
I stood there, staring at the closed door with fists clenched so tightly my nails dug into my palms.
William.
How the hell did she know that name?
How much did she know?
My pulse thundered in my ears. I forced myself to sit down—because if I didn’t, I’d follow her out that door and finish what I started.
The room was quiet again.
But I wasn’t calm.
My thoughts were running wild.
Beatrice hadn’t just come to insult me.
She’d come to poke something.
To let me know she had a card in her hand—and she was waiting to play it.
But how? Who told her?
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