Page 208 of Joker

There’s recognition there. Satisfaction too. Like the call told him enough. Like he’s pleased to finally put a body to the voice that threatened him.

“Joker, right?”

I don’t answer.

He smiles anyway. “Road names are always fascinating,” he says. “Men love inventing themselves.”

Logan stays to my left, silent and watchful, not stepping in because he knows this part belongs to me.

Cal notices that too. Clever bastard. His mouth curves a little more. “So you’re the one,” he says. “The biker who decided my wife needed saving.”

There it is.

Not Raven. Not her name. Not a person. My wife. Possession first. Humanity never.

Something low and vicious settles another notch deeper in my chest. “She’s not your anything anymore.”

That gets me a real reaction. Not anger. Not yet. A flash of offense. Like I’ve spoken out of turn in his private narrative of the world. “That’s not how marriage works,” he says.

“No,” I tell him. “That’s not how you work.”

His expression goes flatter. “Careful. You don’t know what she’s told you is even true.”

That almost makes me laugh.

The sound gets right to the back of my throat and dies there because there is absolutely nothing funny about any of this, but the instinct still surprises me.

Because of course he thinks that matters. Of course he thinks if he plants enough doubt, enough rot, enough implication, the whole thing starts to wobble.

That’s what men like him do. They chip. They undermine. They rewrite.

“She told me enough,” I say.

His eyes sharpen. Dangerous now. Colder. “And what counts as enough, exactly?”

I take one slow step toward him. Not much. Enough to let him know I’m done talking from across the room. “Enough to know you hit her.”

No visible reaction. That’s the most disgusting part. He doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed.

“Enough to know you used fear like foreplay,” I continue.

That gets Logan’s jaw to tighten, but he still says nothing.

Cal’s eyes narrow. “Careful,” he says again. “You’re repeating stories from a woman who—”

I cut in before he finishes. “Enough to know she was bleeding when she ran from you.”

Now I get something. Not guilt. Not regret. Anger. Pure, offended anger that I know that much.

And there it is. The mask slipping.

I step closer. “Enough to know your daughter doesn’t know your face well enough to look for it when she cries.”

That one lands harder. Hard enough that his whole expression changes. Not losing control exactly. Just dropping the pretense.

Now we’re getting somewhere.

“You think you know her?” he asks softly. No more fake charm. No more light amusement. Just venom in a well-tailored shirt. “You think one scared woman spread out in your bed for a couple weeks makes you special?”