Chapter198 Misunderstanding
The woman in red looked at the large, dangerous men blocking her. She gritted her teeth and stomped her foot.
"Fine! Whatever! Stop acting so special!"
She stormed off, her heels clicking loudly against the floor.
Back at the bar, she sat on a high stool, fuming.
She glanced back at the booth.
Under the dim lights, the man’s profile was incredibly handsome.
That mix of elegance and brokenness was a magnet to her.
"I can't let a prize like that go," she whispered, her eyes filled with greed.
She waved over the bartender and ordered a shot of high-proof vodka.
While the bartender reached for ice, she quickly pulled a small packet of white powder from her bag. She dumped it into the glass and stirred it in.
The powder dissolved instantly.
"This is the good stuff," she smirked. "Even the most disciplined man will turn into a dog once he drinks this."
She pulled several hundred dollars from her wallet and pushed them toward the bartender along with the glass.
"Take this to the man in the center booth. Tell him it’s a gift for the highest spender."
The bartender took the money, got the message, and walked over.
In the booth.
Clifton tugged at his collar, feeling restless.
The alcohol was hitting him. His head felt heavy, but he was still conscious.
"Sir, a gift from the house. Enjoy your night." The bartender placed the glass in front of him.
Clifton barely looked at it.
Free drinks were common in high-end bars like this.
Right now, he just wanted the burn of the alcohol to drown out thoughts of Miranda—the woman who had broken his heart.
At the bar, the woman watched him. Her breath hitched. Her palms were sweating.
Drink it! Just drink it!
Under her desperate gaze, Clifton’s throat moved.
He downed the spiked vodka in one gulp.
Ten minutes later.
Clifton felt something was wrong.
A strange heat crawled out from his bones, flooding his body.
It was violent. This wasn't the buzz of being drunk; it was a searing, dizzying fever.
His vision blurred. His breathing grew heavy.
He shook his head, trying to stay sharp, but the heat surged toward his lower body.
"Damn it!"
Clifton cursed. He gripped the armrest of the sofa to stand, but his legs felt like lead.
The woman in red saw him stumble and felt her heart race.
It was working.
She set down her glass, smoothed her skirt, and walked toward the man who was now barely standing.
Tonight, he was hers.
She caught up to him at the end of a dark hallway, blocking his path.
"Hey handsome, why the rush?"
She looked at him with bedroom eyes. She let one strap of her dress slide down her shoulder.
The flash of skin was bright in the shadows. She leaned in, her perfume heavy and cloying.
"Get lost."
Clifton’s voice came through clenched teeth. It was a low, terrifying growl.
The heat was pushing him to the edge of his sanity, but her scent made him feel sick to his stomach.
The woman didn't listen. She pressed closer.
"Stop pretending. You look like you're hurting," she whispered, her hand reaching for his arm. "Let me help you. I’ll show you what real pleasure feels like."
"I said, GET LOST!"
Clifton’s patience snapped.
He didn't care about being gentle. He grabbed her collar and threw her aside like a piece of trash.
"Ah!"
She screamed as she hit the wall, her heel twisting. She crumpled to the floor.
Clifton didn't look back. He marched toward the exit.
"Who do you think you are? You're no gentleman!"
The woman rubbed her bruised shoulder, watching him go. She was furious.
The black Maybach tore through the night back to the Prescott estate.
Clifton used every ounce of willpower to look calm.
He sat in his wheelchair and entered the living room.
Isabella, wearing a thin silk nightgown, was painting her nails on the sofa. She looked up at the sound of the door.
"Clifton? You're back?"
She dropped her nail polish and rushed over with a sweet, worried smile.
But as she got closer, she stopped.
His face was flushed. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His eyes were bloodshot and wild, filled with a suppressed rage.
She realized instantly.
He’s been drugged!
Isabella’s heart hammered against her ribs. This was a gift from God.
"Clifton, you look terrible!"
She hid her excitement behind a mask of concern and knelt by his chair.
She leaned her body against his legs and reached for his forehead.
"Oh my god, you're burning up! Do you have a fever?"
The heat of his skin confirmed everything.
Clifton’s mind was a fog. His reactions were slow.
The world felt like it was flickering. He felt a hand on his head. It was cold, so he didn't pull away immediately.
Isabella grew bolder.
Her fingers slid down from his forehead to his cheek. Her voice was like honey. "Clifton, you're in pain, aren't you? Let me take you to your room. I'll take care of you."
She reached for the buttons on his shirt.
Miranda walked into the room at that exact moment. She froze.
In the center of the room.
Clifton was flushed, his clothes messy.
And Isabella was kneeling before him, stroking his face, her hand on his collar. They looked like lovers about to start something.
Miranda felt like her world had exploded.
But what hurt more were the words she heard next.