Sorry, Mr. Stanford, Your Wife Owns You - Chapter 7: Chapter 7
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Leonard stood beside her looking unbearably smug—as if being Quincy's favorite plaything was some grand achievement worth bragging about. Pathetic.
I couldn't help but scoff at his ridiculous expression. Was he seriously choosing the Winslows over me? Nelson would break every bone in his body if he found out.
With deliberate nonchalance, I shrugged. "Not my style to fight over some guy."
Then I let my voice drop to something colder. "But just so we're clear—if Leonard walks away from me? He's walking straight to his grave."
My gaze swept across the room. "And as for you people? You just made this personal. Congratulations—you've officially dragged the entire Winslow name into your mess."
The crowd stared at me like I'd lost my mind. Whatever. I reached for my phone—
CRACK.
Quincy's stiletto heel came down hard, shattering the screen. She raised her foot again, aiming for my hand—
Big mistake.
I grabbed her ankle, twisted, and sent her flying. She hit the floor like a ragdoll—hair wild, dress askew, shoes launched in opposite directions.
Dead silence.
Then chaos erupted.
"You bitch!" Anne lunged at me first.
SMACK.
My palm connected with her face hard enough to spin her like a top. She staggered back, clutching her cheek in shock.
Leonard charged next—
THWAP. THWAP.
Two brutal slaps sent him reeling. I straightened my skirt, surveying my handiwork. Oh, they were pissed alright.
Quincy scrambled up, face contorted with rage. "You're dead! I'll ruin you!"
I just smirked and spread my hands. "Try me."
Growing up, Dad drilled one lesson into me: always be your own first line of defense. That's why I've trained in MMA since I was fifteen—and still spar twice a week.
If they wanted a fight? They'd need more than these clowns. Maybe call in some actual professionals.
On Quincy's scream, female bodyguards surged forward—
"ENOUGH!"
A cane SLAMMED against marble. The crowd parted like the Red Sea.
I didn't even need to turn around. Game over.
I couldn't help but scoff at his ridiculous expression. Was he seriously choosing the Winslows over me? Nelson would break every bone in his body if he found out.
With deliberate nonchalance, I shrugged. "Not my style to fight over some guy."
Then I let my voice drop to something colder. "But just so we're clear—if Leonard walks away from me? He's walking straight to his grave."
My gaze swept across the room. "And as for you people? You just made this personal. Congratulations—you've officially dragged the entire Winslow name into your mess."
The crowd stared at me like I'd lost my mind. Whatever. I reached for my phone—
CRACK.
Quincy's stiletto heel came down hard, shattering the screen. She raised her foot again, aiming for my hand—
Big mistake.
I grabbed her ankle, twisted, and sent her flying. She hit the floor like a ragdoll—hair wild, dress askew, shoes launched in opposite directions.
Dead silence.
Then chaos erupted.
"You bitch!" Anne lunged at me first.
SMACK.
My palm connected with her face hard enough to spin her like a top. She staggered back, clutching her cheek in shock.
Leonard charged next—
THWAP. THWAP.
Two brutal slaps sent him reeling. I straightened my skirt, surveying my handiwork. Oh, they were pissed alright.
Quincy scrambled up, face contorted with rage. "You're dead! I'll ruin you!"
I just smirked and spread my hands. "Try me."
Growing up, Dad drilled one lesson into me: always be your own first line of defense. That's why I've trained in MMA since I was fifteen—and still spar twice a week.
If they wanted a fight? They'd need more than these clowns. Maybe call in some actual professionals.
On Quincy's scream, female bodyguards surged forward—
"ENOUGH!"
A cane SLAMMED against marble. The crowd parted like the Red Sea.
I didn't even need to turn around. Game over.
End of Sorry, Mr. Stanford, Your Wife Owns You Chapter 7. Continue reading Chapter 8 or return to Sorry, Mr. Stanford, Your Wife Owns You book page.