He lunged forward, trying to intervene.
But the counter between them slowed him down—he couldn’t get between the two women in time.
Camila Davis had been ready for this. The moment she saw that slap coming down, she reacted instantly. She caught Lavinia Roberts’s wrist in midair, yanked it downward with a burst of strength, her eyes flashing cold. With her free hand, Camila swung hard.
Crack—
A sharp slap landed across Lavinia’s cheek, turning her head with the force of it.
Camila’s voice was icy and commanding. “Do you think this is your house? Going around hitting people—Is this how the Roberts family raises their own?”
Even a saint would lose their temper after being provoked like that. Camila could feel her own anger rising. She’d never met anyone so unreasonable—trying to snatch something by force, and then lashing out with violence when they didn’t get their way!
She wasn’t someone to be bullied. She certainly wasn’t going to stand there and let herself be slapped.
Jarvis Peters watched the whole scene unfold, too stunned to even blink. The look on his face was pure shock. He’d never imagined that this delicate, elegant woman would just slap Lavinia right back.
Oh, no. Now she’s really gone and provoked Lavinia—the woman’s a lunatic!
Even as panic registered on Jarvis’s face, Lavinia clutched her stinging cheek, her eyes blazing with rage.
“You dare hit me? Are you out of your mind?!”
As she screamed, Lavinia lunged at Camila, her open hand curling into a fist.
Camila’s eyes widened; this woman moved like she’d had some training. The attack was so sudden that Camila had to leap back, dodging by mere inches.
Lavinia, realizing she’d missed, immediately pressed forward.
Jarvis finally snapped out of his daze. He vaulted the counter, grabbing Lavinia’s arm to restrain her. “Lavinia, that’s enough!”
She struggled, but another pair of hands grabbed her other arm, holding her in a steel grip.
A warning voice sounded from behind. “Miss, you need to calm down!”
Now pinned by two people, Lavinia couldn’t move.
Camila stood rooted to the spot, startled. Because—the other person holding Lavinia was Nathan Gates, Jordan Smith’s assistant. And behind Nathan, out of nowhere, a wheelchair had appeared.
Jordan Smith sat in it, composed and cold, his gaze on Lavinia as sharp as ice.
Camila frowned. Of all people, why did it have to be him here, too? But she quickly realized—Jordan’s leg injury must have flared up again. He was probably here to see a doctor. In a place this small, word traveled fast among the city’s elite. Maybe he’d just happened to notice the commotion.

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