Next Man, Better Plan novel Chapter 11

Stephanie stumbled from the push.

He had come from behind, and the momentum sent the sharp edge of the glass she was holding digging into the palm of her hand.

A piercing pain, sharp as a needle to the heart, shot up her arm, making her wince.

Quennel shielded Victoria, looking at Stephanie with a helpless expression. “Stephanie, what are you doing? I didn't invite Victoria here. Can you please stop making a scene?”

Hearing this, Stephanie dropped the glass, her eyes red-rimmed. “Making a scene? Quennel, did you even hear what Victoria was just saying to me?”

Victoria shrank into Quennel's arms, looking terrified. Her eyes were as red as a rabbit's, as if she'd been terribly wronged.

“Don't you dare accuse me of anything! What did I say? I just saw how good Quennel is to you, yet you've been sullen all evening, acting like he owes you something.

I told you to appreciate what you have, and you flew into a rage and attacked me!”

One was a helpless, innocent girl; the other, an aggressive, wealthy heiress.

People instinctively side with the underdog, and Victoria knew exactly how to play her cards.

Better yet, her face was still swollen, the red mark from the slap serving as the perfect proof of Stephanie's guilt. Victoria made a show of half-concealing her cheek, ensuring everyone could see it.

Stephanie's gaze turned cold, her eyes filled with ice. “That's right, I don't appreciate him. But what business is it of yours to feel sorry for him?

Quennel is devoted to me, and if you don't like it, you can lump it! As long as I'm his wife, you, Victoria, will always be the other woman, hiding in the shadows!”

Stephanie's words were harsh, sparing neither Victoria nor Quennel.

Realizing his tone had been too harsh, he reached out to touch her.

They had grown up together; he knew how strong she was.

When Mr. Jackson died in that car crash and her mother quickly remarried, leaving Stephanie alone in the vast Jackson family estate, she hadn't shed a single tear.

The day he went to bring her home, he found her barefoot in a dark house, curled up in a small corner.

She was terrified, yet when he asked, “Do you want to come home with me?” she had lifted her delicate, porcelain face and answered with forced composure, “I’m not your promised bride.”

Of course she wasn’t. They had been engaged since they were children, and her family had died because of his. He owed her.

Quennel knew her mother's remarriage had hit her hard, because she had been abandoned.