A mocking smirk tugged at the corner of the man's arrogant, indifferent lips, a micro-expression Quinn caught perfectly.
Her chest tightened painfully. She knew exactly what he was thinking—he assumed she had purposely thrown herself into his arms.
And Miles did indeed think exactly that, his predatory gaze clouded with sheer disgust.
"Ms. Avery, are you alright?"
Mr. Knight asked in concern, "Thank goodness Mr. York caught you, or you definitely would have gotten wine spilled all over your outfit."
"Thank you! I'm fine."
"Excuse me, I'm going to the restroom to compose myself."
Quinn used the excuse to slip away, absolutely dreading the sight of Miles's cold, deadpan face.
He didn't want to touch her? Well, she was equally repulsed by the idea of him touching her.
The moment she stepped out of the restroom, a strong grip unexpectedly yanked her to the side.
"Quinn, what the hell are you doing here?"
Quinn violently shook off his hand. Remembering his look of absolute disgust from earlier, her eyes mirrored a freezing winter night.
"Miles York, why I'm here is none of your damn business."
"Don't use the terms of our little contract to boss me around. It's a fake marriage, and it's going to be over very soon. We have nothing to do with each other. You have no right to dictate my actions, and you certainly have no right to interfere in my life."
Without giving him a chance to lash out, Quinn fired off her words like bullets.
Miles's face tightened in stunned anger, his eyes darkening instantly as a suffocating wave of oppressive dominance rolled off him.
"If you want to climb the social ladder, Quinn, at least try not to look so desperate."
"Tristan is taking you home. Like you said, we sign the papers next week. I don't want any complications before then."
Without giving her a single second to argue, he turned on his heel and strode away, leaving behind nothing but his freezing, unapproachable silhouette.
Quinn stared coldly at his retreating back before turning indifferently in the opposite direction.


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