The sound of the slap echoed against the stone walls of the private room, a sharp, violent crack that lingered in the heavy air.
Liam stumbled back. He raised his hand to his cheek. His skin was burning. He stared at his wife, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and disbelief. He was the Crown Prince. He was the future King. No one touched him. No one dared to even look him in the eye without permission.
But Dahlia stood there, her hand still raised, her chest heaving with exertion. She didn't look like a submissive wife. She looked like an executioner.
"Women aren't your plaything," Dahlia spoke. Her voice was low, but it vibrated with a dangerous intensity. "And they are not your excuse for your wrongdoings."
She looked him up and down. She saw the sheet wrapped loosely around his waist. She saw the sweat on his chest. She saw the guilt written in the lines of his face.
