"Don't try to make me the bad guy!" She steps forward, privilege and entitlement radiating from every pore. Her chin lifts in challenge, venom flashing in her eyes. "Maybe if your little charity case kept her legs closed, none of this would've happened."

The room plunges into suffocating silence, the air crackling with tension as every eye fix on us. My jaw clenches so tight it aches, cold fury crystallizing in my chest as I lean in closer, my voice cutting through the stillness like a blade.

"That? Coming from you?" A dark laugh escapes me, loud enough for our audience to hear. Then I lower my voice to a lethal whisper meant only for her. "Take a good, hard look in the mirror, Farrah. You might not like what you see, and trust me, none of us fucking do either."

Her face contorts with rage, and before I can react, her hand flies toward my face. I catch her wrist mid-swing, my grip iron clad. The contact sends a jolt of revulsion through me, but I hold firm.

"I told you last time," I say, my tone deadly calm, "that was the last time you'd ever lay a hand on me. You don't get another chance."

Farrah's lips curl into a venomous smirk, her eyes glinting with calculated malice.

She leans in close enough that I can smell the mint on her breath. "Bet you'd love to hit me, huh? To even the score? We both know you want to." Her smirk deepens as she delivers the killing blow in the form of a whisper. "Just like Daddy does."

The words hit like a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs. My grip falters, hand trembling as rage and restraint wage war inside me.

Before I can do something I'll regret, a blur of motion cuts between us. The crack of Camilla's fist connecting with Farrah's face splits the air like lightning. The sound is sharp, electric, followed by a collective gasp that ripples through the crowd. Farrah stumbles back screaming, manicured hand flying to her face, eyes wide with disbelief as they lock onto Camilla.

“He can’t," Camilla drawls, shaking out her hand with lethal grace, her voice dripping honeyed venom. "But I will. And trust me, I won't hesitate to do it again." She smirks, flipping her dark hair over her shoulder with effortless defiance. "Try photoshopping that out Barbie.”

I make a mental note to never cross Camilla while watching Farrah's fury morph into helpless rage. When she opens her mouth, Camilla steps forward, each word razor-sharp with warning.

"Go ahead. Say something. Give me one more reason to shut you up again. I dare you."

Farrah's mouth snaps shut, her gaze darting around the room as whispers ripple through the crowd like wind through grass. The shift in power is palpable—she's lost, and everyone knows it. Camilla stands tall, fierce and unapologetic, every inch the warrior she's always been.