“Shut your mouth, Vivian,” Marcus spoke.
His voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried thirty tons of sub-zero arctic diamond that made the air in the master suite freeze.
Vivian blinked, her smirk faltering:
“Marcus… excuse me?”
“Take off that ring,” Marcus said, stepping toward her with the slow, measured, predatory gait of a man who had finally realized he had burned down his own temple to warm the hands of a parasite:
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“Take off that ring, pack your luggage, and get out of my house before I have Collins throw you into the street without shoes.”
Vivian’s face flushed an apoplectic, furious crimson:
“You can’t talk to me like that! I am the Vice President of Global Strategy! My family controls eighteen percent of your voting shares through The Valkyrie Trust!”
“I don't give a damn about your voting shares!” Marcus roared, his vocal cords tearing with pure, un-calibrated agony:
