Chapter 971:

🍙 🍙 🍙 🍙 🍙

The hangover was brutal, a nauseating, disorienting wave of it washing over her. She was in her own bed. Her expensive red gown was in a heap on the floor.

She tried to piece together the night before, but her memory was a frustrating, terrifying blank. She remembered the gala. She remembered Hilliard. She remembered feigning drunkenness and being led to the elevator.

And then, nothing.

A jolt of panic shot through her. She frantically checked her body. She was wearing a hotel bathrobe. There were no signs of a struggle, no soreness, no evidence of anything. The suite was empty.

She grabbed her phone from the nightstand. There was one unread message, sent at 3 a.m., from Hilliard.

𝗜𝘯𝘵e𝘯se 𝘳o𝗺a𝗇𝖼е 𝘰𝗻 𝗴а𝗹n𝗈𝗏еl𝘴.c𝗈𝗆

Her heart hammered against her ribs as she tapped it open.

“You were too drunk to stand. You passed out the moment we got to your room. I had the hotel maid service help you change. Get some rest. H.”

Giselle stared at the screen, her mind reeling.

So nothing happened? He just dropped her off and left?

A wave of crushing disappointment washed over her. But then, it morphed into something else.

He had resisted. Even in that situation, with her practically throwing herself at him, he had maintained his control. He was a gentleman.

The man was even more disciplined, more of a challenge than she had imagined. Her obsession, rather than being dampened, flared brighter. He was a prize worth winning. The story was so perfectly plausible, so in character for a man of his stature, that she never once questioned it.

A slow, pleased smile spread across her face. She typed a reply, her tone a perfect mix of apology and flirtation.

Thank you, Hilliard. I was completely out of line. Next time, I promise to make it up to you.

Feeling triumphant, she dialed her mother’s number to report her “progress,” casually mentioning that she had blacked out from drinking too much.

Eleonora’s voice on the other end was cool and clipped. “I have already taken care of the hotel staff. No one saw you leave with Hilliard. You felt unwell and retired to your room early. Alone. Do you understand, Giselle?”

A chill went down Giselle’s spine. She understood perfectly. “Yes, Mother.”

She hung up, any lingering questions about her memory gap erased, replaced only by a burning desire to conquer Hilliard Holloway.

She had no idea that as she sent her flirty text, a microscopic camera lens hidden in the frame of the painting across the room was capturing every word on her screen.

In a dark, secure monitoring room across the city, Hilliard Holloway watched the live feed. He saw her message pop up on his screen.

A smile touched his lips. It was a cold, empty thing, devoid of any warmth or humor.

The fish had taken the bait. The hook was set.

He calmly switched off the monitor.

.

.

.