Chapter 10: Cat Fight at the Bar
The amber light of The Vault tasted like old wood and sharper regret. Evelyn sat at the bar, her spine a rod of poised malice, fingertips tracing the chill of her martini glass. She’d seen the statement. A two-hundred-dollar charge here, last night, on Julian’s platinum card. He never drank at bars like this. Too much polished brass, too many mirrors. It was a place for show.
Then the door opened, admitting a slice of cold street noise and Mara.
Evelyn’s green eyes tracked her instantly. The girl looked different from the corporate phantom she’d glimpsed at the company holiday party years ago. The tailored skirt was now a tight black band barely covering her thighs. The silk blouse was unbuttoned to the sternum, revealing a lace bralette the color of smoke. Her hair, that perfect dark wave, was slightly disheveled, as if recently pulled. She walked with a new, languid confidence, hips swinging towards the bar.
Evelyn was off her stool before Mara could order.
She moved into her path, a statue in a sleek black dress. “You’re the office slut, I presume.”
Evelyn’s voice cut through the low murmur, clear and venomous. The bartender polishing a glass paused, his eyes flicking towards them.
Mara stopped. Her eyes, dark and sharp, swept over Evelyn. Recognition, then a glacial amusement. A cold smile touched her lips. “And you’re the wife who couldn’t keep her husband interested.” She leaned in, her voice a conspiratorial whisper that carried. “I’m not surprised he came to me. He’s been starving at home for years.”
The words were a surgical strike, precise and cruel. Evelyn’s composure snapped.
Her hand shot out, not to slap, but to seize. She grabbed a fistful of Mara’s hair at the crown, yanking her head back with a brutal jerk. Mara gasped, more in shock than pain, her hands flying up to claw at Evelyn’s wrist.
“You little bitch,” Evelyn hissed, her face inches from Mara’s. “You think fucking him in a conference room makes you special? You’re just a convenient hole. A stress relief valve.”
Mara’s laugh was a ragged, breathless thing. She twisted her body, bringing her own hands up to grip Evelyn’s forearm, her nails digging deep crescents into the pale skin. “He didn’t seem stressed,” Mara spat. “He seemed powerful. And he came inside me so deep I could feel it for hours. He never does that with you, does he?”
The image, so violently specific, ignited Evelyn’s rage into a white-hot inferno. She yanked harder, trying to drag Mara off balance. They stumbled, a grotesque parody of a dance, and crashed into the plush leather of a vacant booth.
The world became a frenzy of nails and teeth. Mara, freed by the momentum, shoved Evelyn back against the table. A wine glass toppled, shattering on the floor. Evelyn scrambled, her nails raking down Mara’s cheek, drawing thin, immediate lines of red. Mara cursed, a filthy, guttural word, and grabbed a handful of Evelyn’s hair in return, smashing her head sideways into the booth’s padded wall.
They spilled out of the booth onto the sticky floor in a tangled heap of thrashing limbs. Silk ripped. A strap of Evelyn’s dress snapped. Mara’s tiny skirt rode up to her hips, revealing the plain cotton of yesterday’s panties, a stark contrast to her overt sexuality. They rolled, gasping, scratching, beyond dignity, driven by pure, undiluted hatred.
The bartender’s shouts were distant echoes. “Hey! Ladies! Stop! Get out!”
Evelyn found herself on top, straddling Mara’s waist, her knees pinning Mara’s arms. She was stronger, fueled by a decade of marital weight training and bottled fury. She drew her hand back and slapped Mara across the face. The crack was shockingly loud. Mara’s head snapped to the side.
But Mara’s eyes, when they flicked back, held no submission. Only a blazing, insane fury. She bucked her hips with a savage strength, throwing Evelyn’s balance. They rolled again, and now Mara was on top, her hand fumbling not for hair, but for Evelyn’s throat. She didn’t squeeze, just pressed her thumb hard into the hollow, a promise of violence.
“He’s mine now,” Mara rasped, her breath hot on Evelyn’s face. Her lip was bleeding, smearing crimson on her teeth. “You had him and you let him rust. I make him feel like a god. I suck his cock under his desk. I let him fuck my ass when he’s had a bad day. What do you do? Text him and we need to talk?”
The humiliation was total, paralyzing. It was the truth, weaponized.
Then large hands closed around Mara’s shoulders, hauling her up and off like a doll. A massive bouncer, face like stone, held her writhing form at arm’s length. Another gripped Evelyn under the arm, lifting her to her feet.
They stood there, separated by six feet of stained carpet, heaving. The entire bar was silent, every patron watching.
Evelyn’s dress was torn at the shoulder, the delicate fabric hanging. A long run streaked up her stocking. Her elegant chignon was a bird’s nest of escaping strands, her cheekbone already blossoming a tender purple. Mara was worse. Her blouse was ripped open, the lace bralette snapped, one breast exposed. The scratches on her face wept tiny beads of blood, mixing with her smeared lipstick. Her hair was a wild tangle.
“Out,” the bouncer said, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Both of you. Now.”
They didn’t look at each other again. They turned, in unison, and walked towards separate exits—Evelyn to the front, Mara to the side door leading to the alley. Their steps were unsteady. The silence between them was not a truce, but a live wire of mutual, perfect loathing.
The cold night air hit Evelyn’s heated skin like a slap. She fumbled for her phone, her hands shaking. No cab. She would walk. Let the city see her ruined. One thought, cold and clear, cut through the humiliation: Julian had done this. He had created this void they were all fighting in. And he would pay for it.
In the dark alley, Mara leaned against the brick wall, vomiting a thin stream of gin and bile onto the asphalt. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, smearing blood. She felt the sting of every scratch, the ache in her scalp. She also felt a perverse, electric thrill. She had seen the desperate animal in the elegant wife. She had drawn its blood.
She straightened, pulling the torn blouse across her chest. The memory of Julian inside her, of his hands on her hips in the conference room, was the only clean thing she owned. She would cling to it. She would use it.
They did not become allies. They parted ways still pissed at each other, their clothes and makeup ruined.