He Used Me to Rise, Then Knelt to Beg

Her expression twisted into something ugly and vicious.

"Someone teach this little tramp a lesson!" she shouted, her voice rising higher. "Whoever gives me the best show, I'll give them a million dollars!"

The effect was immediate.

It was as if a switch had been flipped.

The crowd, which had already been hostile, turned fully against me in an instant, their restraint gone. Greed and excitement flickered in their eyes as they began to close in. The courtyard outside the cathedral reception hall shrank around me, bodies pressing forward like soldiers who'd just been given orders.

"You still think you can challenge Serafina?" someone sneered. "She's going to be the sanctioned donna of the entire Vescari operation! What do you think you are?"

"Seriously, it's just a broken necklace," another voice scoffed dismissively. "You're used to losing things anyway, aren't you? Selling yourself for scraps. Why act so dramatic now?"

"Shameless goomah!" someone shouted. "You think you can just walk in here and act tough? You really think we'd be scared of you?"

Even Teresa joined in, unable to resist adding to the humiliation. Her earlier restraint was completely gone. Her thumb worked fast against the side of her forefinger, brushing off invisible chalk, faster and faster, as if the speed of the gesture could justify which side she'd chosen.

The next moment, I was shoved violently. My balance gave out, and I hit the ground hard. The stone beneath me was old and uneven, worn smooth by decades of Sunday processions. Pain shot through my body, but it was nothing compared to the humiliation burning through me. My hands clenched tightly as I struggled to push myself up, my entire body trembling with anger.

"You'll all regret this!" I spat through gritted teeth, my voice low but filled with warning.

The response I got was laughter.

Cruel, mocking laughter that echoed around me.

"Regret?" someone jeered. "What do you think this is, the old parish school? Just because you were the top student back then doesn't mean you're anything now!"

"Exactly!" another chimed in. "You're just a nobody now. Selling your body and still trying to act superior? Who do you think you're fooling?"

"Know your place, goomah!" someone yelled. "You should be grateful anyone's even paying attention to you!"

"And honestly, how low can you go?" another voice added viciously. "Seducing your old classmate's man? You're digging your own grave!"

Hands grabbed at me, forcing me down as I tried to get up. They pinned me against the ground, their insults raining down endlessly. Some spat at me, others laughed, and the noise became overwhelming, suffocating. The late-afternoon light caught the stained glass above the cathedral entrance, throwing red and gold across the stone where my cheek pressed flat.

Through the chaos, Serafina stepped forward slowly, her face filled with triumph. A wide, satisfied grin spread across her lips as she looked down at me.

Then, without hesitation, she lifted her foot and pressed it against my cheek, grinding it down as if to assert her dominance. The heel of her shoe bit into the bone. I could smell the leather polish on it, close enough to taste.

"Regret?" she said coldly, her voice filled with arrogance. "I've never regretted anything in my life."

She leaned in slightly, her eyes gleaming with anticipation.

"I'm actually curious," she continued, her tone mocking. "How exactly are you going to make me regret this?"

At that very moment, the distant roar of engines suddenly cut through the noise.

A fleet of armored town cars sped into view, their presence impossible to ignore as they came to a sharp stop right in front of the crowd. The lead car's grille bore the kind of custom armor plating that only Family vehicles carried.

The commotion faltered instantly.

Car doors opened one after another.

Damian stepped out from the lead car, his figure composed and imposing, flanked by a group of sharply dressed men who carried themselves with unmistakable authority. Soldiers. Every one of them. The kind who wore their suits like holsters.