Michael stood before her, his presence looming like a dark cloud. The tension in the room was palpable, a stark contrast to the quiet of the night.

Elizabeth frowned, attempting to step back and create some distance. But Michael’s gaze remained fixed on her, cold and unwavering. "Answer me," he demanded, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous octave.

Elizabeth had never raised her voice at him before, but the unfairness of the night had reached its limit. "Michael, what exactly are you accusing me of?" she snapped, her eyes sparking with defiance.

Michael’s expression shifted, his brows knitting together. He reached out, his grip on her wrist firm but devoid of the previous night’s aggression. "You smell like alcohol," he noted, his tone icy. "You were out with those bank managers. Do you have any idea how that looks for a member of the Thomas family?"

"I didn't drink a single drop!" Elizabeth retorted, pulling her wrist free. "They tried to force me, so I left. I value my dignity more than a loan."

In the heat of their argument, Elizabeth stumbled back against a display table. A sharp tearing sound filled the air—the delicate fabric of her high-end dress had snagged on a decorative metal edge.

She stared in disbelief at the ruined gown, her eyes welling with tears of frustration. "Look at what you've done! This dress was borrowed, Michael. You're impossible!"

Michael stared at the torn sleeve and the exposed shoulder, his usual composure momentarily faltering. He saw the genuine distress in her eyes and felt an unfamiliar pang of doubt. "Remember your position, Elizabeth," he said, though the edge in his voice had softened.

Elizabeth clutched the damaged fabric, her voice trembling. "I just want my freedom. I want to save my father's legacy without being treated like a stray dog. You don't see anyone else's feelings, Michael. You only see your own rules."

She didn't wait for his reply. She turned and retreated to her room, the slamming of the door echoing through the hallway.

Michael remained in the living room, a rare look of confusion crossing his face. Had he overreacted? He had waited all afternoon for her to consult him about the Jones Group's financial crisis, yet she had chosen to handle it alone, facing predators in the business world without his protection. His anger had been fueled by a protective instinct he didn't yet understand.

His phone rang—it was Daniel. "Mr. Thomas, I saw Mrs. Thomas leaving the hotel earlier. She had a falling out with the bank managers because she refused to join their toast. She left completely sober."

Michael’s grip on the phone tightened. He realized he had misjudged her actions, letting his inexplicable irritation cloud his logic. This new emotion—this burning need to keep her within his sight—was driving him to act in ways he couldn't explain.

Later, Susan brought a tray of pasta to Elizabeth’s room. "Mrs. Thomas, Mr. Thomas asked me to bring this. He... he seemed quite upset with himself after you left."

Elizabeth, now changed into modest loungewear, stared at the ruined red dress draped over a chair. "Tell him a bowl of pasta doesn't fix a lack of respect," she said quietly.

"He also mentioned that your mother-in-law, Mary, is being discharged tomorrow," Susan added. "He expects you to accompany him to the old mansion."

Back in the master bedroom, Michael sat on the edge of his bed. He looked down at a faint bruise on his leg—a mark from where Elizabeth had pushed him away in her haste to leave. His legs were slowly regaining sensation, and for the first time, the pain felt like a reminder of a connection he wasn't ready to admit.

Why was he so focused on her? He had always been indifferent to women, yet Elizabeth Jones was becoming a permanent fixture in his thoughts, challenging his control in ways no business rival ever could.