Marcia grabbed her by the arm, her grip iron-tight. "You're not going anywhere! Call Frank right now. Tell him you cheated on him. Tell him you want a divorce!"
…
Elissa was speechless, on the verge of retorting, when she spotted Bernard leading a small battalion of bodyguards charging toward them.
Frank moved at the center of the group, his stride purposeful and commanding.
Elissa glanced at Marcia, tilting her chin toward the approaching men. "No need for me to call. He's here."
Marcia spun around to see Frank and his entourage. A flicker of fear crossed her eyes, and she instinctively tried to bolt.
But Bernard was faster. He and his men blocked her escape without missing a beat.
Frank strode over, focusing on Elissa. Some of the coldness in his expression faded, replaced by a gentler tone. "She didn't hurt you, did she?"
"No." Elissa shook her head. "You're here for her, aren't you?"
It made sense now—the call Frank had taken in the car must've been about Marcia.
Marcia was the one who'd run.
Frank looked momentarily distracted but didn't deny it. "Yeah."
Elissa nodded. "Well, I'll leave you to it. I'm heading home."
Panic flashed across Marcia's face. She shoved past Bernard, desperate to reach Elissa. "Elissa, please! Help me! If he takes me back, I'm as good as dead!"
Elissa didn't even pause, walking straight into her building without a backward glance.
She had no interest in getting involved in whatever mess they'd made for themselves.
She'd never claimed to be a saint.
Marcia had teamed up with Slate to nearly ruin her reputation and had Tanya Foster thrown in jail.
Not to mention all the other things Marcia had done—Elissa didn't have it in her to play savior.


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