CHAPTER 176: THE WHORE’S RECKONING

Fear crawled through Abigail’s body from the tips of her toes to the crown of her head like a thousand icy needles.

Her throat constricted as her gaze met Julie’s.

There was no screaming, no wild movement—only that still, silent look that made Abigail’s insides twist with dread.

Julie stood there, her posture deceptively calm, but her eyes—those eyes—were something else.

They burned with a quiet, deadly heat, the kind that didn’t need words to make a person tremble.

From the other side, Ava was the first to recover. The shock that had frozen her a minute ago faded from her features, replaced by something sharper.

Her lips curved slightly, a dark smirk tugging at the corner as she studied Julie’s expression. So that’s what fury looks like when it’s controlled.

"Ava," Julie said suddenly.

The sound of her name, low and firm, made Ava straighten immediately.

Julie’s tone wasn’t raised, but it carried the weight of authority—cold, poised, and dangerous.

Julie’s feet moved with deliberate grace as she rose from where she had been standing.

The faint sound of her heels brushing against the floor filled the tense air, mingling with the lingering scent of perfume and spilled wine.

Ava took a step closer, her heartbeat quickening as she met Julie’s gaze. "Yes?" she asked, though the word came out softer than intended.

Julie turned her head slightly toward her, her hair brushing against her cheek, her expression unreadable.

"Please take her out," she said quietly, every syllable crisp, controlled, "and hand her to Azazel."

Her voice was so cold, so perfectly steady, that it made the tiny hairs on Ava’s arms stand.

There was no emotion left in it—no anger, no grief—just the kind of calm that came before something irreversible.

Ava swallowed, forcing a small smile that didn’t reach her eyes. "Why not," she murmured. Her tone was light, but inside, she was stunned.

Julie’s composure after everything—after that—was terrifying. The kind of terrifying that commanded respect.

She nodded and turned toward Abigail, who was still frozen near the bed.

The woman’s skin had turned pale, her lips trembling as her eyes darted helplessly between them.

Julie’s voice cut through again, colder now, her tone almost like a whisper of frost. "Don’t make me repeat myself."

Ava hesitated for a split second, then exhaled, letting a smirk tug back at her lips. "Yeah, for real," she said under her breath, not daring to meet Julie’s eyes again. "That’s the right thing."

For a long moment, the room was silent except for the faint rustle of Abigail’s trembling movements. The air seemed to hum—thick, electric, and dangerous.

Julie stood unmoving, her face an unreadable mask.

But her eyes—those quiet, blazing eyes—followed Abigail like the shadow of judgment itself.

"Do you want me to raise you myself, or will you stand up on your own, Miss Whore?" Ava’s words came out smooth but laced with venom, a cruel smirk curling her lips as she tilted her head slightly.

The tone was mocking, confident—the kind that made the insult sting sharper than any slap.

Her eyes glittered like a blade catching light, and there was something dangerously satisfied in her expression.

Abigail froze where she sat on the floor, her palms pressed to the cold marble tiles. For a moment, her breath stopped.

Then, like fire igniting through her veins, humiliation surged to her face, burning hot across her cheeks.

Did she just call me—?

Her head snapped up, eyes wide and disbelieving. She could feel her pulse pounding furiously under her skin.

The muscles in her neck tensed as she stared at Ava, her lips twitching as if to form words but failing.

Whore.

The word echoed in her head, ugly and heavy. Her stomach twisted.

Her pride—the one thing she still clung to—was pierced clean through.

With a sharp movement, she pushed herself up from the floor, her knees scraping slightly against the smooth tile.

The sound of her heels scuffing the ground filled the thick silence.

Julie stood off to the side, silent as a storm waiting to break.

Her expression didn’t shift—not even slightly—but her eyes tracked every movement Abigail made. Cold. Calculating. Waiting.

Abigail’s gaze flickered toward her for the briefest second, and for that fleeting moment, the fear she’d felt earlier returned—like a chill creeping up her spine.

But she shoved it down quickly, forcing herself to look away. She refused to show weakness, not in front of them.

Her voice came out tight, trembling with rage. "What did you say?"

Ava didn’t even flinch. Instead, she smiled wider, her head tilting again with deliberate slowness, her tone dripping with mockery.

"You heard me." Her voice was almost playful, but her eyes were sharp, daring Abigail to step forward.

The tension between them thickened, heavy enough to taste in the air.

Abigail’s nostrils flared as she took a small step forward, fury twisting across her features.

Her hands clenched at her sides until her knuckles turned white.

She could feel her heart hammering against her ribs. The urge to strike—to defend her wounded pride—boiled under her skin.

"Whore," Ava said again, quieter this time, but with more weight.

Her lips curved slightly as she tilted her head to the side, her voice calm, taunting.

"That’s what I said. Should I repeat it?"

The single word hung between them, poisonous and deliberate.

Abigail’s body trembled—not from fear this time, but from rage barely contained.

Her teeth clenched, her jaw tightening as her eyes darkened to slits.

For a moment, it was pure silence.

The only sound was the faint crackle of the air between them, heavy with unspoken violence—until the tension began to shift, slow and dangerous, as both women faced each other like predators waiting for the first strike.

Hearing Ava’s taunting words echo in the air, Abigail’s face contorted in fury. Her hand shot up, trembling with rage, ready to strike Ava across the face.

But before her fingers could even reach, another hand caught her wrist midair—firm, cold, and unyielding.

Julie.

Her grip was like steel. Abigail froze, her breath catching in her throat as her eyes met Julie’s.

There was no softness left in those eyes—only a blazing storm of betrayal and fury that could burn straight through flesh.

Then, without warning, Julie’s other hand moved.

The sound of her palm meeting Abigail’s cheek cracked through the silence like a gunshot.

Smack!

The force sent Abigail’s head whipping to the side, her hair flying, her body stumbling slightly as pain bloomed across her already bruised cheek.

The sting was sharp—hot, humiliating. She could taste the metallic tang of blood at the corner of her lips as a thin red line trickled down.

Her vision blurred for a second, spots flashing before her eyes.

Her face was already swollen from the first slap earlier, the skin tender and pink.

Now, with this second hit, her cheek puffed up further, uneven and throbbing, one half of her face grotesquely misshapen—like a half-baked loaf of bread.

Ava’s mocking laugh sliced through the tension. "It seems she needs more," she said, folding her arms, her lips curling into a dangerous smirk.

Julie turned her gaze toward her, and for the first time since entering the room, a cold smirk tugged at the corner of her own lips—an expression both cruel and calm, like someone who’d lost all fear of consequence.

"Earlier," Julie said slowly, her voice icy and deliberate, "I thought I needed to attend to my husband."

Her eyes flickered briefly toward the bed, where Roman now lay motionless, his chest rising and falling steadily—fast asleep, unconscious, unaware of the chaos unraveling around him.

Julie’s gaze softened for half a second before it hardened again as she turned back to Abigail.

"But it seems," she continued, her tone dipping lower, "you need attention far more than he does."

Abigail swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry.

Julie stepped closer, her heels clicking against the marble floor, each step slow and ominous. "You’re impatient," she whispered, her words a venomous caress.

"Desperate. You crave attention so badly..." She tilted her head, her smirk widening. "...you’ll get it."

Ava followed, her expression matching Julie’s—mocking yet deadly serious.

The two women moved in perfect sync, like predators closing in on cornered prey.

Abigail instinctively took a step back. Her body trembled, her breathing quickened.

Her once-confident glare faltered, replaced by wide-eyed panic as she scanned their faces—Julie’s face pale but fierce, Ava’s eyes glinting with dangerous amusement.

Both carried an aura that froze the air around them.

"W–What... what are you going to do to me?" Abigail stammered, her voice breaking as she tried to take another step back, only to bump into the edge of the bed behind her.

The sound of the bed frame creaking echoed in the tense silence.

Neither of them answered.

Julie’s gaze didn’t waver. Ava’s smirk only deepened. Their silence was louder than words—chilling, deliberate.

"Julie..." Abigail whispered, her voice trembling. "You—"

But before she could finish, Ava’s hand flew through the air.

Slap!

The impact was brutal—Abigail’s head snapped violently to the side, a sharp gasp leaving her lips.

The sound of skin meeting skin echoed harshly through the room, followed by a small cry of pain.

"Slap!"

Ava didn’t stop. The second hit came from the opposite side, and Abigail’s head jerked again, strands of her hair flying loose, her earrings clattering to the floor.

The power behind the blows was relentless; her cheek stung as heat flooded her face.

Her breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, her body trembling as she struggled to stay upright.

Then came Julie.

Before Abigail could recover, a fist connected with her stomach—sharp and precise.

Thud!

The air rushed out of her lungs in a strangled moan. Pain spread through her abdomen like fire.

She doubled over, clutching her stomach, her knees nearly buckling under her.

Julie didn’t move again; she just stood there, breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling as her eyes glimmered with unspent fury.

For a long moment, there was no sound except Abigail’s soft whimpering and the faint ticking of the clock in the background.

Ava stood beside her, her arms crossed, her gaze fixed on Abigail’s trembling form.

The smirk had faded slightly now—replaced by something cold and satisfied.

Julie’s voice finally broke the silence, low and chilling. "That was for calling yourself what you’ll never be."

Abigail stayed bent over, clutching her stomach, her lips split, tears gathering in her eyes as the weight of shame pressed down on her harder than the blows ever could.

And for the first time that night, she understood—Julie wasn’t the fragile woman she thought she could break. She was something far more dangerous.