Chapter 142 Charles’s Admonition
A cold wind rushed in through the half-open door, carrying the chill of late night and instantly dispersing the lingering, intimate haze in the room.
Arthur's eyes snapped open. As his vision focused, what came into view was a heavily made-up face that seemed somewhat familiar.
Rachel.
A wave of shame and disgust instantly overwhelmed his drunken confusion.
Arthur recoiled as if burned, releasing his grip so forcefully that he sent Rachel tumbling off the bed.
With a soft thud, she hit the carpet hard, utterly disheveled.
"Get out."
The word squeezed through his clenched teeth, his voice ice-cold, carrying the most cutting finality of the late night.
No hesitation, no lingering attachment—the disgust in his eyes looked at her as if she were filth.
Rachel pushed herself up from the floor awkwardly, her knees burning with pain.
She looked up at Arthur, meeting his now-clear eyes. There was no trace of drunkenness left in that gaze, only revulsion toward her.
Jealousy and rage surged to her head. She bit her lip hard, turned her head unwillingly, and shot a vicious glare at Charles standing in the doorway.
If he hadn't come in just now, if he hadn't ruined everything, she would have gotten what she wanted.
Charles stood at the door, seemingly holding some documents, his eyes narrowing slightly.
He took in this absurd scene, then curved his lips into an enigmatic smile.
He walked in slowly, closing the door behind him with one hand, shutting out the night.
"Mr. Grant."
He spoke, his voice light and tinged with mockery. His gaze swept over the disheveled bed before settling back on Arthur's ashen face. "Looks like I came at an inconvenient time. Accidentally interrupted something good between you two."
Charles turned slightly to the side, making a gesture of invitation, his tone teasing. "Should I step out so you can continue? This show is quite entertaining to watch anyway."
"Shut up."
Arthur snapped, his chest heaving violently.
At this moment, he had no patience for pleasantries. He felt like his whole body was burning with nameless rage.
He tugged roughly at his disheveled tie and sat up. The drunkenness seemed to have completely cleared in that instant, leaving only a splitting headache and irritation.
He rubbed his temples hard, his knuckles turning white from the pressure. Looking up at Charles, his tone was cold as ice. "What are you doing here?"
Charles stopped teasing him. With a flick of his fingers, he lightly handed over two items he'd been holding.
"Mr. Grant, take a look at this. You should be interested."
Arthur frowned, still carrying the lingering alcohol and irritation, and reached out to take them.
The first thing that caught his eye was a shopping receipt from a mall. The signature at the bottom was delicate and familiar, each stroke seeming to be carved into his heart.
Aria Hall.
His breathing hitched sharply, his fingertips tightening instantly, almost crushing the thin paper.
Then he flipped to the flight itinerary underneath—a return flight ticket. In the passenger name field, clear as day, was that same name.
Aria Hall.
Arthur's pupils contracted suddenly. The drunken haze from moments ago vanished completely, even the throbbing pain in his temples was suppressed.
He looked up sharply, his previously cold and gloomy eyes now churning with disbelief, wild joy, panic, and an almost uncontrollable urgency.
"She really came back?"
His voice was hoarse from tension, every word trembling.
He clutched the ticket and receipt, his knuckles white, gripping so hard as if trying to absorb this long-awaited news into his bones.
He leaned forward slightly, his gaze locked on Charles, his tone carrying unprecedented panic. "Where is she? Where is Aria now?"
Charles met his almost burning gaze and spread his hands lightly, his tone flat and calm.
"I don't know where she is. I found these today at the airport VIP lounge while handling some business. A staff member handed me the wrong documents. I glanced through them, saw the name, and kept them."
He paused, looking at Arthur's suddenly tense profile, and added, "These must have been left behind when she checked in, mixed into another passenger's documents. Beyond this, I have no information about her whereabouts."
Arthur's fingertips were white from gripping, his knuckles turning blue from the pressure. In those eyes that were usually calm and composed, now remained only the madness and urgency of something lost and found.
He quickly flipped through the flight itinerary, his gaze fixed on the date and time column.
Those numbers pierced his eyes like needles.
Flight date, departure and arrival times—all clear and unmistakable.
His hand trembled as he clutched the paper, his voice terribly hoarse. "When did she come back? What exact time did she land?"
Charles looked at him calmly. "The date and time are printed right there. You saw them, didn't you? Anyway, this is all I found. Where she is, I really don't know."
Charles's gaze fell on his disheveled shirt, reddened eyes, and alcohol-reeking body, his tone carrying frank advice.
"Arthur, the way you look right now is really pathetic. Getting drunk, losing control, mistaking your assistant for someone else, and screwing up business deals."
"This isn't what Arthur should be doing."
He paused, speaking clearly and forcefully, word by word.
"If Aria really came back, do you think she'd want to see you like this?"
"If you really want to see her again, if you want to win her back, get yourself together first. Pull yourself together."
Charles gave him one last look, his tone growing heavier. "Be at your best before you see her. Otherwise, even if you do run into her looking like this—distracted and defeated—it would be better not to meet at all."
Charles looked at his profile, tense to the point of rigidity, and his tone softened slightly, carrying the honesty that comes from years of partnership.
"I'm not trying to be harsh on you. We've worked closely together all these years. I know what kind of person you are better than anyone."
He paused, calmly bringing up that incident.
"I found out later about you hitting someone at my company."
Arthur's fingertips tightened sharply, his eyes darkening.
"I know you did it because of Lucy."
Charles didn't accuse him, simply stating flatly, "That person had a foul mouth, was maliciously slandering her, crossed your line. I understand why you lost control. I buried that incident, didn't pursue it, didn't say a word about it publicly."
"I can tolerate impulsiveness in personal matters."
Charles's voice grew heavier, carrying a clear warning.
"But you can't keep bringing this loss of control into your work. Tonight's failed partnership wasn't an accident—it's because you've completely fallen apart. Your mind isn't on the business at all. If this continues, you'll destroy not just your business, but yourself."