Chapter 5 Humiliated in Public

Barbara's POV

I turned slowly, already knowing what I would find. There stood Isabella Harlow, in all her trust-fund glory, her hair swept into an artful updo that screamed "I have a personal stylist on retainer," her makeup flawless as always.

But it wasn't Isabella who made my heart stutter painfully in my chest. It was the man beside her: tall, conventionally handsome, looking uncomfortable but making no move to stop her.

Samson Weber. My ex.

As I faced Samson, something cold and familiar twisted in my stomach. Two years should have been enough time to heal, but standing here, I felt like that same devastated girl watching her world crumble in our shared apartment. The worst part wasn't even the betrayal — it was how small he'd made me feel, how worthless. Like I'd been playing dress-up in a life I didn't deserve.

I straightened my spine against the rising tide of those old insecurities. Not today. Not anymore.

"Two years without seeing you," I managed, my voice steadier than I felt. "And here I thought my luck was improving."

Isabella's perfectly contoured face scrunched up in confusion and malice. "What are you even doing here, Barbara? This isn't exactly your price range." Her eyes performed an exaggerated scan of my outfit, lingering on my worn sneakers with the subtlety of a spotlight.

Samson's face tightened, trying to play nice like he always did. "Bella, maybe we should—"

"I see you haven't changed a bit, Samson," I cut him off, channeling an inner dignity I didn't entirely feel. "Still letting Isabella do all your talking while you stand there looking pretty?"

His face darkened like a thundercloud. "Barbara! I was trying to help you here," he warned, his carefully constructed veneer of sophistication cracking. "This isn't the place for you."

I tilted my head, a laugh bubbling up. "Why can't I be here? Is this place owned by you? Last time I checked, the mall wasn't under your name."

A muscle in Samson's jaw twitched. I had forgotten how easy it was to get under his skin when his precious image was at stake. Feeling strangely emboldened when I saw him like this, I raised an eyebrow. "Sorry, my mistake. I forgot you're just a lapdog for the Harlows now. Even if this place was yours, it wouldn't have your name on it, would it?"

"BARBARA!" Samson's voice echoed through the atrium, drawing curious stares from nearby shoppers.

I couldn't help the smile that spread across my face. There was something deeply satisfying about watching his carefully cultivated image fall apart in public. The perfect Samson Weber — handsome, ambitious, hard-working — reduced to shouting in a mall like a toddler denied candy.

Memories flickered through my mind like an old film reel. Samson Weber, the scholarship kid from the wrong side of town, with his secondhand textbooks and dreams bigger than his bank account. I had admired that about him once — his determination, his brilliance, the way he never let his humble beginnings hold him back.

What a joke that seemed now. All that talent, all that potential, and he had traded it in to become Isabella Harlow's accessory.

"You know," I said, the words flowing easily now, "I used to think you were special, Samson. Turns out you do not disappoint me — you are specially good at being whatever the highest bidder wants you to be."

Isabella's eyes narrowed dangerously. She reached into her designer bag, a motion that sent an inexplicable chill down my spine, and pulled out a thick wad of cash. The sight of it made my throat constrict, a reaction so visceral it surprised even me.

"Listen, Miss Nobody," she purred, her voice honey-sweet but eyes glacial. "Two years have given you quite the mouth, haven't they?"

She stepped closer, the smell of her expensive perfume creating a cloud around us. With deliberate slowness, she extended her hand, the cash fanned out between her fingers. "Take this money and get lost. Buy yourself something decent to wear for once."

Then, before I could react, she flicked her wrist and the bills scattered around me, floating to the floor like toxic confetti.

The world tilted sideways.

I was suddenly back in that dingy apartment two years ago, walking in on them tangled together on our couch. Isabella's cruel laughter as I stood there, frozen in shock. The way she had tossed money at me then, too.

"Here's for your trouble, honey. Find yourself a guy in your own league."

My hands trembled at my sides, not from fear but from a white-hot rage that started in my stomach. I had thought I was over this — over them — but the humiliation still burned fresh, like it had happened yesterday instead of two years ago.

"Come on, pick it up," Isabella commanded, a smirk at the corner of her lips.

I stared at the money on the floor, at her smug face, at Samson's uncomfortable but silent presence beside her. Something inside me that had been coiled tight for two years suddenly snapped.

"You disgusting, pathetic couple," I hissed, my voice trembling with rage. "Do you think you can humiliate me again like you did before?"

Before I knew what I was doing, my hand shot out, connecting with Isabella's cheek in a slap that echoed through the atrium.

Isabella stumbled backward, her hand flying to her face, shock written across her features. "You — you hit me!"

"Next time, keep your money and your opinions to yourself," I said, amazed at how steady my voice sounded when the rest of me was shaking.

Isabella's shock quickly morphed to fury. "Samson! Are you just going to stand there? DO SOMETHING!"

Samson seemed to snap out of his stupor, stepping toward me with his hand raised. "Barbara, you've gone too far this time—"

His hand moved toward my face in a blur, and I flinched, bracing for impact. But the blow never landed. Instead, a large hand appeared from nowhere, clamping around Samson's wrist with a grip that made him wince. I followed the hand up to an arm, encased in an expensive suit sleeve, up to broad shoulders, and finally to a face I would recognize anywhere.

Levi.