Chapter 18

Olivia's hand shot out, intercepting Marley's with a sharp slap against her wrist. "Excuse you," she spat, her voice dripping with venom. "You see, darling, it takes more than just dressing up to belong here. The audacity to think you could simply take what I've so carefully chosen for my husband. You should know your place." She leaned in closer, her words a mocking whisper, "And that's certainly not here among those who can actually afford these luxuries."

Marley's lip quivered as if holding back a deluge of retorts. Her fingers curled into a fist, but she kept her composure, even as the store manager cast a wary glance her way. "Miss, please," he said, his voice a low murmur of barely veiled disdain. "There's no need for theatrics. This suit was pre-ordered by Miss Olivia."

Under the scrutiny of the manager and onlookers, Olivia straightened her posture, adopting a mask of polished grace. Yet, there was a tremor of satisfaction in her gaze as she watched Marley wrestle with her anger. "Really, Marley," Olivia cooed with saccharine sweetness. "Some things will never be yours to claim. Why grasp at straws when you know they'll only slip through your fingers?"

Marley's eyes narrowed, and Olivia could almost hear the cogs turning in her head, each silent click a testament to their shared history—a history Olivia was determined to rewrite. The weight of the unspoken hung thickly between them; Marley knew the barb wasn't just about attire or status—it was an arrow aimed straight at her failed marriage with Oscar.

Marley's retort was a serpent's hiss, laced with venomous mockery. "Something that doesn't belong to me, and certainly isn't yours either," she sneered, fingers curling possessively around the fabric of the trousers. With each passing moment, her grip tightened—a silent battle of wills manifesting in the tense air between them.

"You want to fight?" Marley taunted, a wolfish smirk tugging at her lips. The muscles in her arms tensed like coiled springs, her mind a whirlwind of scorn and defiance. Olivia's smugness had scraped raw the wounds of betrayal, evoking memories Marley wished could be shredded as easily as the material in her grasp.

"Isn't this what you want, Olivia?" Marley's voice dripped with challenge. And then, with a sudden jerk fueled by all the pent-up frustration, the sound of tearing cloth sliced through the boutique's ambient hum—the crotch of the pants giving way, rending a gaping hole in the once pristine garment.

The store manager's voice pierced the scene, high-pitched and alarmed. "Oh, what are you doing!"

Across from her, Olivia erupted, her face contorting with fury as if stung by a swarm of invisible wasps. "You're doing this on purpose! You're fighting with me, Marley!"

But the cold satisfaction that glazed over Marley's features was unyielding. She seized the mangled trousers, feeling the torn fabric beneath her fingers—an emblem of Oscar's shattered fidelity. With a precise flick of her wrist, she hurled them across the no-man's-land separating her from Olivia.

"Here," Marley spat out, icily calm. "These tattered pants are perfect for Oscar to wear. Your taste is impeccable, really."

The trousers hit Olivia squarely in the face, a slap made of fabric and insult. Olivia staggered back, her hand flying up to caress where the cloth had struck, her skin blanching to an ashen hue. Her chest heaved with indignant breaths, eyes blazing with an inferno that promised retribution.

Marley stood resolute, her silhouette casting an unyielding shadow on the polished floor. Her eyes fixed on the store manager who was barreling toward her with a face reddened by anger and authority.

"Miss, you've done this deliberately!" The store manager accused, his voice a sharp jab that cut through the tense silence. His finger pointed at her as if it could pin her guilt to the walls, "You're causing a scene!"

Marley's spine straightened even more, her posture as unshakeable as the marble pillars flanking the store entrance. A cool gaze met the manager's fiery one. "It's not my fault they're damaged," she stated, her voice a calm counterpoint to the manager's heated tones. "And I refuse to pay for them."

Her assertion seemed to hover in the space between them, a gauntlet thrown. The manager's mouth opened and closed, searching for words that could regain his control over the situation.

"Besides," Marley continued, her words slow and deliberate, a stark contrast to the chaos around her, "I am a customer here too." She glanced casually around the store, then added with serenity lacing each syllable, "I came to buy my husband's underwear."

Outside the store, amidst the hustle of midday shoppers, stood Arthur Riley. He leaned against a sleek column, his figure relaxed yet commanding attention. A knowing smile played upon his lips, amusement twinkling in his eyes. It was a scene ripe for gossip, and Arthur wouldn't miss it for the world.

"Ha!" he barked out a laugh that echoed off the high ceiling of the mall. Swiftly extracting his phone from the pocket of his tailored jacket, he dialed a familiar number with practiced ease.

"Dane, I'm at the mall right now. You guess who I see?" he said, his tone both playful and conspiratorial. Another chuckle escaped him as he delivered the punchline. "It's Marley. She claims she's here to buy you underwear." His laughter deepened, a wicked note to its cadence.

Inside Marley's head, thoughts swirled like leaves caught in a tempest. She knew how precarious her position was—trapped in a maelstrom of social landmines and emotional warfare. The torn trousers were just another casualty in the battle for dignity; the fight with Olivia, a skirmish in a war that was far from over.

She could feel the eyes of the shoppers on her, their curious gazes taking in the spectacle. Marley's heart pounded with defiance, but beneath it lay a thread of dread. The stakes were higher now, every move she made under scrutiny. Yet surrender was not an option; she would stand her ground, even if the world crumbled around her.

As Arthur's laughter danced among the crowd, Marley remained stoic, a statue of resolve facing down the tempest of scandal and betrayal. The tension hung thick in the air, a prelude to the storm yet to come.