The Jilted Heiress: Too Late For Regret

The soft click sound when the room card slides into the lock is the signal.

Gisele stood pressed against the wall, her right hand gripping a heavy belt buckle. Her body was like a taut spring, every muscle screaming in struggle against the drugs.

The lock beeped, a cheerful electronic sound that contrasted sharply with the ugliness of the scene.

Ivy Sterling was about to come in and admire her "masterpiece".

The door began to swing inward. Gisele didn't wait. As soon as the gap widened enough, she acted. Instead of letting Ivy push it open, Gisele used all her strength to pull the door sharply towards herself.

Ivy, who had lost her balance and was looking down at her phone, was completely unprepared. The sudden tug sent her staggering forward, a startled gasp escaping her lips. Her expensive stilettos had caught on the edge of the luxurious carpet, right where Wade Tucker's unconscious body was hidden from her view.

She tripped and fell.

In that chaotic moment of loss of balance, Giselle lunged at her. She threw away the belt, her left hand shot out to cover Ivy's mouth, stifling her scream. Her right arm encircled Ivy's waist, pulling her deeper into the shadows of the room.

Ivy's eyes widened in shock and fear as she met Giselle's gaze. She smelled the sticky, sweet scent of the drug clinging to Giselle's skin, and a flicker of confused dread crossed her face. This wasn't part of the plan.

"Do you like my new perfume?" Giselle's voice was a venomous whisper, burning against Ivy's ear. "You picked it out for me. I think it's only fair if you try it too."

Giselle's grip was terrifyingly strong. Ivy struggled, her neatly manicured nails scratching futilely at Giselle's arm, but it was like fighting a steel trap.

With one last rough shove, Giselle pushed Ivy to the center of the room. Ivy landed softly on the huge bed with a "plop," right next to Wade Tucker's still-breathing body.

Before Ivy could struggle to escape, Giselle grabbed the edge of the heavy down comforter. She yanked it off, covering the two of them, creating a messy, tangled mess under the sheets.

Ivy's muffled screams of anger and fear sounded like heavenly music to her.

But the drug was taking effect. Black spots danced in Giselle's vision. Her knees felt like they were about to give way. She had to get out of there. Now.

She staggered out of the suite, pulling the heavy door shut behind her. The door clicked shut automatically. Inside, Ivy's struggles turned into faint, rapid knocking.

Giselle leaned against the cold, Damask-walled wall of the corridor, panting heavily. Each breath felt like a battle. Her legs trembled uncontrollably.

bite.

The sound of the elevator reaching the end of the corridor was like a gunshot in the quiet space. It must have been a reporter.

A cold, sharp panic finally pierced her drug-blurred consciousness. She couldn't be seen. She couldn't use the elevator.

The only other way out is the fire escape. It's at the other end of the corridor.

She braced herself against the wall, her body screaming in protest. Each step felt like trudging through wet cement. The ornate carpet seemed to stretch for miles. She gripped the wall with one hand, using it to guide herself as her vision blurred and focused, blurred and focused again.

She just needs to go around this corner.

As she rounded the corner of the corridor, her legs finally gave way. She lurched forward, a choked cry caught in her throat, and crashed into something hard and unmoving.

It was a man's chest. The impact jolted her, and the world seemed to tilt violently. The scent of expensive wool, clean, crisp cedar, and a faint hint of tobacco filled her senses. It was a comforting aroma, a stark contrast to the cloying sweetness of the hotel room.

She looked up, her vision blurred. All she could make out was a sharp, defined jawline and the snow-white collar of his shirt. He was very tall.

“Hey, Adrien,” a drawn-out voice came from nearby. “Looks like the welcoming committee is getting a bit more aggressive lately. Is this some kind of new kind of meeting?”

The man she bumped into, Adrian, didn't answer. He simply looked down at her, his expression unreadable. He scrutinized her disheveled appearance, her flushed cheeks, and the confused, unfocused look in her eyes, his brow furrowing slightly. He smelled the scent of medicine on her, a scent that didn't belong here.

However, in that instant of physical contact, Adrian Herbert's soul trembled before his reason.

It wasn't lust, but a strange, almost fatalistic sense of familiarity.

His long, slender fingers clearly touched her warm earlobe, which should have been soft, but because of the calluses on his fingertips, they brushed against the edge of a very subtle bio-adhesive patch used to reshape the ear. Beneath her cheap black-rimmed glasses and heavy makeup, he caught a faint, almost imperceptible, chilling aura belonging to the highest echelons of nobility—a scent he only detected at banquets in ancient European families.

This drugged and disheveled girl is no ordinary bar hostess. Someone is using the most despicable means to destroy a precious soul.

This intense sense of incongruity pierced Adrian's usually incredibly accurate worldview like a poisonous thorn. He was convinced, without reason, that he had to enter this game.

Gisele's mind was screaming. The reporters were coming. She was trapped. This man was her only way out. He was her lifeline.

Instinct took over everything. Her hands, which had been pressed against his chest to steady herself, were now clenched into fists, clutching handfuls of fabric from his expensive suit jacket.

The second man, the one with the drawn-out voice, started to say something else, a sarcastic remark swirling on his tongue. But a cold look from Adrian immediately silenced him.

Adrian's gaze was fixed on Giselle. He could feel the subtle trembling within her body. Her skin, where her hand touched his neck, was burning hot from a fever. This wasn't just a drunken girl seeking pleasure. She was in deep trouble.

Just then, a commotion erupted at the end of the corridor she had just fled from.

“This is the room!” a man shouted.

Several figures, some carrying cameras, rushed around the corner and headed straight for Ivy's suite. They were so focused on their target that they didn't even notice the two men in the alcove and the girl clinging to them.

“Ms. Sterling! We’ve got intelligence that there’s a party here!” one of them shouted, while banging on the door.

A loud, rough knocking echoed down the hallway. The sound struck Giselle like a heavy blow. Her last ounce of strength, her last surge of adrenaline, vanished.

She tilted her head back, forcing her blurry eyes to focus on the man's face. She couldn't make out his features, only a dark and imposing silhouette.

Her voice was hoarse and broken, almost inaudible.