Arthur did not flinch.

He did not even drop his champagne glass.

I braced myself against the cold brass railing of the mezzanine.

The man in the trench coat pulled his hand from his jacket.

It was Tristan.

His hair was damp with sweat, clinging to his forehead in messy strands.

His expensive tuxedo shirt was torn at the collar.

In his right hand, he held a heavy, black semi-automatic pistol.

“You ruined me, Kate,” Tristan screamed.

His voice cracked, echoing off the high arched ceiling of the ballroom.

Down below, the remaining guests began to shriek and scatter.

The sound of shattering glass rose from the lobby.

“Tristan, put the gun down,” I said, keeping my voice as flat as ice.

My heart hammered against my ribs, but I refused to let him see me tremble.

He took three steps forward, his leather shoes squeaking loudly on the polished marble.

His eyes were bloodshot and wild.

“You think you can just take everything?” he yelled, pointing the barrel directly at my chest.

“I built that firm,” he said. “I built that life.”