Avery's lips curled in disgust the moment she heard Keaton's words. For a brief second, the poised, composed businesswoman in her nearly cracked.
She wanted—no, she ached—to take her sharp stiletto heel and dig it straight into those lecherous eyes that dared to size her up like she was an object on a showroom shelf. Her blood boiled, a wave of nausea and rage twisting in her stomach.
But instead of acting on impulse, she inhaled slowly.
She stepped closer to him. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was like ice—sharp, smooth, and merciless.
"Mr. Keaton," she began, "I've been doing business for years now, and the only filth I've come across in this industry... is men like you."
She watched with a certain dark satisfaction as the flicker in his eyes changed—his arrogance shifting for a fraction of a second into stunned disbelief.
Avery didn't stop there. She took one more step toward him.
