Chapter 42: Dina Crashes the Party
By the time the chairman and his wife reached the line, Cora couldn’t peel Julian’s arm off without making a scene. She jabbed an elbow into his abdomen—light, precise, a warning. He straightened at once, as if he’d anticipated the blow, and stepped a respectful inch away.
Breathing again, Cora smoothed her expression.
“It looks like Cora’s nearly ready,” Julian said, moving forward to greet their guests. “Lunch is served.”
“The Watson Group lives up to its reputation,” the chairman replied, pleased. “Even your restaurant is impressive.”
Julian’s smile held the easy arrogance of a man born to it. “Only the best work here. My grandmother’s rule—never slight talent. Please, this way.”
Approval flickered between the chairman and his wife. Power, influence, discipline—Watson ticked every box.
Cora didn’t keep them waiting. Platters glided to the table in quiet sequence: shaved beef like silk, greens in crisp tiers, mushrooms cut as thin as coins, copper pots sighing with milky broth.
“You’ve gone to so much trouble,” the chairman’s wife told Cora warmly. “Mr. Watson is a lucky man. You must make home his favorite place to be.”
“Every night,” Julian said, sliding his hand over Cora’s, his gaze a crafted softness that could sell an illusion to God. “Dinner with her is my favorite thing.”
If she didn’t know better, Cora might have believed him. No wonder women fell in droves; the face, the body, the money, the myth of spotless fidelity—he was curated perfection.
She didn’t pull away. She smiled and walked the chairman’s wife through the broths, the sauces, the order of the dips. Food was neutral ground; they found an easy rhythm there, and the older woman’s delight loosened the chairman’s shoulders. He gave a small nod, and an aide appeared with a folder.
We’re signing now. Cora’s relief was so strong it made her light-headed.
Then a voice split the air from the doorway—shrill, pitched to cut.
“Jule, how can you do this to me? I was supposed to be your wife! How could you marry my best friend?”
Every face at the table snapped toward the entrance.
Dina.
She stumbled inside in a Watson custodial uniform, hair wild, eyes glossy with triumph and tears. For a heartbeat, Julian just stared. Then his expression turned lethal.
Security. Where the hell was security?
The chairman and his wife had already paused the signing. They rose together, reflexive and cool. “Mr. Watson,” the chairman said, voice hard, “what is this?”
“A misunderstanding,” Julian began, but Dina lurched forward, closing fast.
“Whatever this is, we’ll handle it later,” he told her, jaw tight. To Cora, he said, “Take the chairman and madam downstairs to rest.”
“Of course.” Cora stepped toward their guests, composure clutched tight. “I’m very sorry for the interruption. Please, allow me—”
Dina’s palm cracked across Cora’s cheek.
The sound echoed—a sharp, humiliating snap. Cora reeled, copper rising in her mouth. The room tilted.
“You shameless thief!” Dina shrieked, fisting Cora’s collar and yanking her forward. “I thought you were my friend, and you stole my man!”
The second slap never landed. Julian’s hand clamped around Dina’s wrist, iron-hard.
“Enough.” He stepped between them like a wall.
Cora pressed her palm to her burning cheek. Tears stung, but she refused to let them fall. She had never betrayed Dina. Not once. On her birthday, her life had been detonated, and somehow this woman—the one who’d handed her that key—had decided the blast was Cora’s fault.
Dina wrenched and failed to break free. Then she collapsed into noisy sobbing. “Jule, you can’t treat me like this! I was supposed to be your bride!”
“I’m warning you, Dina,” Julian said, voice a quiet storm. “Stop.”
She didn’t. She didn’t even seem to hear him.
“Austin,” Julian snapped without looking away, “escort the chairman and madam out. Clear the floor.”
“Yes, Mr. Watson.”
The chairman’s mouth thinned. “We expect an explanation,” he said coldly. “Our company does not partner with men who discard women like trash. Madam.”
He turned on his heel. His wife hesitated, her gaze catching on Cora’s pale face—the stubborn set of her mouth, the way she held herself upright despite the tremor in her legs. Compassion flickered. But this wasn’t a room for outsiders. She followed her husband out.
Silence crashed down. Just three of them now, the scent of broth and spice going flat in the air.
Julian released Dina with a small shove. “What?” he said softly, dangerously. “Milan bored you? You decided to come home?”
She launched herself at him; he stepped aside, and she stumbled. “I was wrong,” she babbled. “I won’t go back to Milan. I won’t model. I’ll marry you, I’ll give you children—”
“Dina.” His name on her tongue sounded like a child’s plea. “Cora was a gift. A present for you because I missed our date. How can you marry the gift and ignore the one who gave it? I’m back, Jule. I’m here. The gift can step aside now.”
Gift? The word detonated in Cora’s skull.
She stared at Dina, shock scraping her raw.
“I love you,” Dina rushed on, oblivious. “You know I do. Milan called the day of our date—the runway asked me to close. It’s been my dream forever. I was going to meet you, but the opportunity—”
“And then?” Cora’s voice shook. She already knew. She didn’t want to know.
“And then I sent my best friend to you as compensation,” Dina said, not even glancing at Cora. “It was fair. You can’t treat me like this. She was only a present. I’m your girlfriend.”