Chapter 277

Quinn's POV

I stepped out of the courthouse, clutching my leather briefcase like a shield. The spring air should have felt refreshing after hours in that stuffy courtroom, but I couldn't enjoy it. Not when I spotted the cluster of reporters waiting at the bottom of the steps like vultures.

My heart sank. I'd hoped to slip away unnoticed, but clearly that wasn't going to happen. Their heads turned in unison as they spotted me, and they surged forward, microphones extended like weapons.

"Ms. Ashford! Quinn Ashford!" they called out, voices overlapping.

I straightened my shoulders and lifted my chin, slipping on the cool, professional mask.

A particularly aggressive reporter with bleached blonde hair pushed to the front, shoving her microphone toward my face.

"Ms. Ashford, you were present for the entire Lucas Harrington case hearing. From your legal perspective, can you provide some analysis on today's proceedings?"

I stopped, knowing from experience that sometimes the quickest way through was to give them something-just enough to satisfy without revealing anything of substance.

"The judge's ruling speaks for itself," I replied, my voice steady and professional. "The final judgment is the authoritative answer to this case. There's really nothing more to analyze or explain. The judge's word is definitive."

I tried to move past them, but they closed ranks, blocking my path to the parking lot. The blonde reporter persisted, her expression shifting to something more predatory. My stomach tightened with dread.

"Ms. Ashford, it's been reported that Spencer Sherwood is frequently seen at nightclubs and has been photographed numerous times with various women. How do you feel about your husband's... recreational activities?"

The question hit me like a slap. My pulse quickened, but I forced my expression to remain neutral. The sting of her words burrowed beneath my skin.

"Everyone has their preferred lifestyle," I said, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. "If Spencer enjoys going out, that's his choice. As long as he's happy." My voice nearly cracked on the last word, but I held it together.

I had been asking myself the same questions for months. Was I really okay with it? Could I continue living like this?

The reporter's eyes gleamed, sensing weakness. "You truly don't mind? You are married, after all. Don't you find his behavior... distasteful?"

I felt heat rising in my cheeks. The shame and anger I'd been suppressing threatened to break through my carefully maintained facade. These vultures didn't care about me or my marriage-they just wanted a headline.

"That's between my husband and me," I said, my voice sharper now. "I don't need to report our private matters to you."

"Are you avoiding the question, Ms. Ashford?" the reporter pressed, her smile widening. "Is it because you can't control Spencer Sherwood? Why haven't you considered divorce? Is it the Sherwood family fortune that's keeping you in this marriage?"

The accusation pierced deep, striking at my greatest insecurity. My hands trembled slightly, and I gripped my briefcase tighter to steady them. All those nights I'd lain awake, wondering if people saw me as nothing more than a gold-digger. I'd worked so hard to build my reputation as a competent attorney, and here they were, reducing me to a stereotype.

"Do you realize you're engaging in malicious defamation?" I managed, my legal training kicking in despite my emotional turmoil. "I can and will use legal means to protect my rights if you continue."

The reporter opened her mouth to fire back, but her words were cut off by a furious roar.

"Are you trying to get yourself killed? Harassing my wife?"

Spencer's voice cut through the crowd like a thunderclap. The circle of reporters parted as he stormed through, his face contorted with rage. Six feet of barely contained fury, his tailored suit couldn't disguise the tension coiled in his muscles.

My heart lurched at the sight of him. I hadn't expected him here. We hadn't spoken in days, not since our last fight.

Before I could process what was happening, Spencer grabbed the blonde reporter by her collar, sending her microphone clattering to the ground.

"My relationship with Quinn is none of your business," he snarled, his face inches from hers. "If you ever dare to smear her name again, I will end you."

The reporter's face paled, her earlier bravado vanishing. Security guards from the courthouse were already moving toward us, attracted by the commotion.

Spencer released her with a shove and turned to address the entire press corps, his voice carrying across the courthouse steps.

"For future reference, if you want to ask about my nightlife or take your pathetic photos, come to me. Anyone who harasses Quinn will regret it for the rest of their miserable career. That's a promise."

He grabbed my arm before I could protest, his grip firm but not painful. "Let's go."

"I have my own car," I objected, trying to pull away.

His eyes flashed dangerously. "Shut up," he hissed, low enough that only I could hear.

The raw command in his voice silenced me momentarily, allowing him to steer me toward the black sedan waiting at the curb. His driver opened the door, and Spencer practically pushed me inside before circling around to the driver's side.

"What are you doing?" I asked, alarmed as he dismissed the driver with a curt nod and slid behind the wheel himself.

He didn't answer, just jammed the key into the ignition and floored the accelerator. The powerful engine roared to life, and we shot into traffic, leaving the courthouse and the reporters far behind.

My heart hammered against my ribs as Spencer weaved through traffic at an alarming speed. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his jaw clenched so tight I could see a muscle twitching.

"Spencer, slow down," I pleaded, gripping the door handle. "You're going to get us killed."

He ignored me, pushing the car faster as we entered the highway. The speedometer crept past eighty, then ninety.

Fear coiled around my throat, strangling my voice. I'd seen Spencer angry before, but this was different. This wasn't just anger-it was something wilder, more desperate.

"Spencer, please," I tried again, my voice barely audible over the engine's roar. "Whatever's wrong, we can talk about it. Just slow down."

"Talk?" he spat, shooting me a scorching glance. "Now you want to talk? After you stood there letting them say those things about you-about us?"

I felt a flash of indignation cut through my fear. "What was I supposed to do? Create an even bigger scene? You're the one who made things worse! You can't just assault reporters, Spencer!"

"Why not?" he demanded, swerving around a slower car. "They deserved it! Saying you're with me for the money-"

"And what about the rest?" I shot back, my voice rising despite myself. "The nightclubs? The other women? They weren't lying about that, were they?"

His face darkened, but he didn't deny it. The silence between us swelled, filled only by the engine's growl and my rapidly accelerating heartbeat as the speedometer pushed past a hundred.

A car ahead of us braked suddenly, and Spencer swerved so sharply I was thrown against the door. Terror seized me, the reality of our mortality suddenly, vividly clear.

"Spencer, that's enough!" I screamed, tears finally breaking free. "Stop the car! You've made your point. Whatever you're angry about, whatever I've done, this isn't the way to handle it. For God's sake, is killing us both really worth making your point?"