Preston Quincy pounded on the door in front of him like a madman, his rising panic making it impossible to stay calm. He turned to the hotel manager and demanded, "Bring me the keycard for this room!"
The manager trembled, completely baffled as to how today’s otherwise flawless banquet had gone so wrong. "Please wait a moment. I’ll have someone fetch it from the front desk."
Nearby, Stella Joyce stared intensely at the door, her blood running cold. While the others might not know what was happening inside, she had already guessed the possibility. With so many people coming and going, and so many eyes watching...
Inside the room, Zoe Lancaster was so frantic that she bit down hard on Simon Hawthorne’s tongue, instantly tasting blood. Simon frowned, a brief flash of impatience breaking through his aloof demeanor. Keeping his eyes fixed on her, he pulled back slightly. "Are you that afraid he’ll see you writhing beneath another man?"
Zoe felt caught between fire and ice. The intense physical and emotional torment pushed her to the verge of collapse. Unable to hide the desperation in her eyes, she pleaded, "I’m begging you, please."
Simon pressed his thin lips together, an unreadable emotion briefly flickering in his eyes.
Out in the hallway, a hotel staff member hurried upstairs and handed the keycard to Preston. His hand trembled uncontrollably as he gripped the plastic card, his face deathly pale. In that crucial moment, he hesitated, terrified of what he might see once the door opened. But eventually, reason prevailed. If Zoe was being forced against her will, he couldn’t just stand by and let her get hurt!
He brought the keycard inches from the sensor.
"Zoe Lancaster!"
Stella, who had been completely silent until now, suddenly called out. Preston’s heart skipped a beat, and he whipped his head around. Forcing a tight smile, Stella pointed down the hall. "Are you looking for her? I just saw her take the elevator downstairs."
Hope flared in Preston’s chest. "Really? Where?"
"A few minutes ago," Stella replied, having regained her composure. "Toward the side entrance."
Preston let out a massive sigh of relief. Dropping the keycard, he turned and sprinted away, with Mrs. Quincy hurriedly chasing after him. The hotel management quickly stepped in to clean up the mess, finally bringing an end to the chaotic scene.
Only Stella remained, glaring poisonously at the unopened door. Her long nails dug so deeply into her palms that the pain nearly drove her mad.
"Is there anything else you need, Miss Joyce?" Shane Shaw stepped forward and asked coldly.
Stella fought the urge to demand answers, ultimately just asking, "Where is Simon?"
Shane glanced at his watch. "Mr. Hawthorne is currently occupied. If you need something from him, I can handle it on his behalf."
Stella barely maintained her composure. "That won’t be necessary."
She hadn’t spoken up to help Zoe; she had only been protecting herself! With so many people present today—including the media she had personally invited—what would happen to her if Zoe and Simon’s marriage was exposed? She would be torn to shreds by the public!
Turning away, Stella’s expression darkened with gloom. Zoe Lancaster... she had underestimated that woman. She couldn’t let this go on any longer.
Zoe had passed out. The drug’s effects had been too intense, and Simon’s stamina was terrifying. She simply couldn’t withstand the double exertion.
When Zoe woke up, her throat was so dry it felt like it was on fire. Her entire body was limp and aching, accompanied by a humiliating soreness. Looking around the room, she recognized it as the master bedroom of Simon’s home, the Imperial Residence. She weakly propped herself up and checked the phone on the nightstand. It was already past seven in the evening. However, she had no idea how much time had actually passed or even what day it was.
The most pressing issue was that things had spiraled completely out of control. She and Simon had... slept together. And she had done it without confirming whether he was the man from that night.
Her head throbbing, Zoe curled into a tight ball, her hands and feet freezing cold. She forced herself up, preparing to get out of bed, but felt a raw, burning discomfort between her legs.
"You’re awake?"
A familiar, cold, and emotionless voice drifted from the doorway. Zoe trembled instinctively. She couldn’t articulate exactly what she was feeling—was it nervousness? Or fear?
Simon walked in, dressed in relatively casual attire: a loose black wool sweater and slightly wide-legged black trousers. His broad shoulders gave him the sex appeal of a top-tier male model, and his cool, pale complexion made his features so exquisite it was almost mesmerizing.
"You slept for a long time." Simon bent down slightly, naturally reaching out to feel her forehead. His eyes behind the gold-rimmed glasses revealed no emotion. "Your constitution is terrible. You ended up running a high fever."
She had been the one clinging to him, driving him crazy and begging for him. Yet she was also the one who couldn’t handle it and fell ill. Was she made of paper? How could she be so frail?
Zoe reflexively dodged his touch, her heart feeling numb and sour. "I’m fine. Don’t worry about it."
Simon narrowed his eyes. Wanting nothing more than to escape, Zoe tried to get up, but Simon grabbed her wrist and tossed her back onto the bed. Her nightgown—which she had been changed into at some point—was suddenly pushed up. The color drained from Zoe’s face in an instant, and she thrashed wildly. "Simon Hawthorne! It hurts! I don’t want to!"
Simon frowned, shooting her a glance, but he didn’t stop. His fingertips made direct contact, and Zoe’s entire body went rigid. A cooling sensation began to spread from that intimate area.
He even made a point to ask, "You don’t want what?"
Panic painted Zoe’s face, but she quickly realized what Simon was doing. He was applying ointment. He was looking at her from such a close distance that she could feel his breath ghosting over her skin. The already sensitive area made her tremble uncontrollably. Yet, his noble and indifferent face showed absolutely no trace of lust. He was just very seriously applying the medicine for her, bit by bit.
Zoe flushed a deep crimson, feeling as if her whole body had been boiled alive. She had loved this man for so long and rarely had any chances to be close to him, let alone have him examine her so intently.
Overwhelming shame fueled her struggles. "I can do it myself!"
Simon’s patience was wearing thin. His tone dropped, slow and oppressive. "Don’t make me tie you up. Stop moving."
Zoe squeezed her eyes shut. She wished she could just throw herself out the window and end it all.
The process didn’t take long. When Simon finally straightened up, he noticed Zoe biting her lip so hard she was about to draw blood from the already tender skin. He frowned. "You’re getting shy just from me looking? Have you forgotten what you did yesterday?"
Zoe wanted to die of embarrassment. She could only change the subject. "How long has it been?"
Though Simon looked aloof, he answered her question. "A day and a night."
Zoe fell silent. So... just how long had they been at it? She didn’t dare to ask. Feigning nonchalance, she smoothed down her nightgown and endured the discomfort as she got out of bed.
The moment her feet touched the floor, Simon stepped forward, bent down, and scooped her up into his arms. He carried her out to the dining room, where she noticed a bowl of soup and several delicate side dishes already laid out on the table. Surprisingly, it was her favorite comfort soup.
"Eat." Simon set her down on a chair. There was no tender affection in his actions; the distance between them still felt sharp and stinging.
Zoe forced herself not to care and tried to make conversation. "Did you make this?"
Sitting directly across from her, Simon lifted his gaze. "Do you think you’re that important?"
Zoe felt like a glutton for punishment. Why had she even bothered asking, only to invite further humiliation? She silently lowered her head and began to eat. Having not eaten for a day and a night, she was genuinely starving. She didn’t know where the soup was from, but it perfectly suited her tastes, and the bowl was soon empty.
With nothing left to do, the atmosphere grew increasingly suffocating. Zoe knew she had to face the reality of the situation.
"Do you have anything you want to say?" she asked.
Simon took off his glasses, his voice deadpan. "Shouldn’t you be the one doing the talking?"
Zoe swallowed hard, her insides twisting, yet she managed to keep her tone steady. "Thank you."
If it hadn’t been for Simon yesterday, she really would have ended up with Preston...
Simon said nothing, but his brows furrowed for some reason, as if he disliked her gratitude.
"Also..." Forcing herself to look at him, Zoe appeared fragile and desolate, her eyes uselessly welling with tears. "That man was you, wasn’t it?"