Chapter61 Drunk
That unusual bitterness on her tongue was fleeting, almost like a hallucination. Miranda didn't dwell on it, assuming it was just a unique taste from a new vintage.
But within minutes, a flush of heat began to rise from her lower abdomen. It spread like wildfire, quickly engulfing her entire body.
She felt her mind clouding.
Scanning the room, Miranda's eyes landed on a server's tray nearby, where some empty wine glasses she had used were placed.
Could she be... drunk?
She knew her grandfather had opened several rare, aged bottles for the birthday party.
She hadn't paid attention, drinking glass after glass while socializing.
Miranda shook her increasingly foggy head, trying to clear her mind. But the action only worsened the dizziness.
She remembered that the small building next to the garden, used for VIP guests, had several lounge rooms.
Clifton's international meeting was likely to last a while longer. She decided she should go sober up first, to avoid causing a scene later.
Having made up her mind, Miranda quietly excused herself to Alice, maintained her composure with effort, and turned toward the small building. Her steps were unsteady, each one feeling like she was walking on cotton.
A thin layer of sweat had broken out on her back, making the silk dress cling uncomfortably to her skin.
In a corner of the garden, Celeste was chatting and laughing with some friends, but her peripheral vision was fixed on Miranda.
When she saw Miranda, alone and dazed, move away from the crowd and head toward the guest lounge building, a malicious glint sparked in Celeste's eyes.
The drug was finally taking effect.
She could almost see what would happen next. That tramp, Miranda, would be dragged into a room by a few low-class playboys in plain sight, and then...
Once she was a slut scorned by everyone, a laughingstock of the entire elite circle, Celeste wondered if her grandfather and cousin would still protect her!
A rush of vengeful pleasure surged through Celeste. Her smile became sweeter. She casually said goodbye to her friends and discreetly retreated into a dark, unnoticed corner, taking her drink with her. She took out her phone.
The cold light of the screen reflected her savage smile as she quickly sent a text message.
[She left. Make your move.]
The moment the 'sent' confirmation popped up, she immediately deleted all records. Having done all this, Celeste calmly returned to the crowd as if nothing had happened.
As she turned, four figures, whose crude nature couldn't be masked, exchanged knowing, malicious glances at the inconspicuous side entrance of the back garden. They followed Miranda's path toward the small building.
Upstairs in the small building, the corridor was covered with thick, exquisite handcrafted carpets, making her steps silent.
The moment Miranda stepped onto the floor, she stumbled, nearly tripping on the soft rug.
The heat inside her body intensified, burning her throat dry. Her reason felt like it was being devoured piece by piece.
Using the last of her clear thought, she staggered toward the nearest lounge room. But just as she reached the door, before her hand touched the handle, she saw two figures fiercely entangled inside the slightly ajar door.
Unmistakable gasps and sweet moans poured out from the crack.
Miranda froze.
Someone is already in this room. The one next door must be empty.
She instinctively tried to move away.
But before she could turn, a woman's voice, one she knew too well, came from inside. It was laced with a crying, deliberately seductive tone, repeating a single name over and over.
"Harrison... Harrison..."
The sound was like a lightning bolt, cleaving a path of clarity through Miranda's clouded mind.
It was Ariana.
The sounds from the lounge grew louder, more uninhibited, mixed with the man's heavy breathing. Just listening to it was enough to imagine the embarrassing scene inside.
A cold, mocking smile slowly curved Miranda's lips. Ex-husband and cousin. They really were a match made in heaven.
The ridiculous scene was more effective than any sobering medicine, clearing her confused thoughts significantly. She forced her weak legs to turn, heading toward the next lounge room at the end of the hall.
But before she could take two steps, she heard heavy, hurried footsteps behind her.
Downstairs, in the back garden.
When the sleek, all-black custom wheelchair rolled into the banquet hall, the lively atmosphere paused for a moment. The host of the birthday party, Clifton, had arrived.
He wore the dark sapphire pinstripe suit Miranda had personally chosen for him. Its careful tailoring enhanced his broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted physique. The silver mask on his face reflected a cold, mysterious sheen under the lights, revealing only his bottomless black eyes and his sharply defined jawline.
Countless gazes, some admiring, some regretful, some greedy, all turned toward him at once.
The old Clifton was once the dream man for every socialite and heiress.
But a car accident had not only disfigured him but left him permanently disabled.
The golden boy had fallen from grace overnight.
A collective, quiet sigh rose from the crowd.
Despite this, many women still entertained notions about him. After all, he was the sole heir to the Prescott fortune. Prescott's wealth, status, and power were the absolute pinnacle of high society. If one could just become Mrs. Prescott, what did it matter if she had to live like a nun for the rest of her life?
Almost the instant he appeared, a daring woman in a red dress elegantly walked up to him with a drink, her voice sickly sweet: "Clifton, I'd like to propose a toast."
Clifton didn't even lift his gaze, his thin lips opening to utter one word.
"Don't."
The sound wasn't loud, but the woman's smile instantly froze. Warned by this example, the other eager women immediately hesitated, unwilling to humiliate themselves.
Clifton controlled his wheelchair, his cold gaze moving unhurriedly around the back garden, but he didn't see the familiar figure. His brow, hidden by the mask, furrowed in displeasure.
She's not here? Where did she go?
Just then, one of Prescott's important business partners saw Clifton and quickly approached him to talk. Clifton, though impatient, maintained his composure and exchanged a few polite words.
Even if they weren't discussing work, charming Clifton at this event was good for future business.
He had just finished a pointless conversation, holding a drink, when the butler hurried over and quietly reported the earlier dispute between Miranda, Ariana, and Harrison, recounting every detail.
Clifton's fingers tightened around his glass. A flicker of cruelty crossed his eyes.
"Where is my wife?"
The butler quickly replied, "Harrison and Ariana went to a lounge room in the small building quite early and haven't come out. The Madam went toward the small building alone just a few minutes ago."
Clifton's frown deepened instantly.
A vague, undeniable frustration surged within him. Without hesitation, he turned his wheelchair and sped toward the small building.
But just as he started to move, a sharp figure swiftly blocked his path. It was his chief executive assistant, Mia.
"Clifton,we have an emergency situation at the European branch. This urgent document needs your attention right now."