The woman's voice was low and icy, yet Coachella unexpectedly heard a hint of tenderness in it.
She looked at Epstein, the hypocrite who had dragged her into the abyss, a short distance away. His once-crisp bespoke suit was now crumpled like a dead leaf battered by a gale. His expensive tie hung crooked and loose around his neck. The collar of his white shirt was stained and torn in several places, exposing red scratches beneath.
His eyes were now filled with terror and panic, his former arrogance long gone.
A scrape marked his fat cheeks, mingling with sweat and dust and leaving him utterly bedraggled. His legs trembled slightly, and faint traces of some unidentified liquid stained his suit trousers.
As Coachella looked at Epstein, she suddenly felt a surge of strength drive the fear from her heart.
All she had ever wanted was a job that would let her support herself!
Why should she have to endure all this?
It was all because of him!
Tears spilled from Coachella's eyes. Through her blurred vision, she spotted a fallen bottle of red wine beside her feet, but the painful swelling in her ankle did nothing to stop her from picking it up.
She raised her hand, her arm muscles trembling slightly with the effort.
Then the bottle carved a vicious arc through the air and smashed into Epstein's head with a resounding crash.
Crack!!
Glass shards flew everywhere, and red wine sprayed through the air. Caught off guard by the blow, Epstein staggered backward, his face contorted with pain and disbelief.
He stood there as though the blow had stunned him senseless, aware only of a strange sensation on his forehead.
Something seemed to be trickling slowly down it.
An inexplicable unease rose in his heart, and Epstein instinctively