Chapter 90

Chapter 90

After a quick wash, Beatrice went straight to bed.

But sleep didn't come easily. Her dreams were chaotic and unsettling, filled with strange, distorted images.

Suddenly, a violent pounding on the door ripped through the silence.

The brutal sound yanked Beatrice from her restless sleep.

Her eyes flew open, heart hammering against her ribs as the relentless banging continued. Her brow furrowed sharply.

The pounding grew more savage with each strike, as if whoever was out there intended to smash straight through the solid wood.

Beatrice threw off the covers and padded quietly toward the door. She was about to ask who it was when an ear-splitting crash exploded through the room.

The lock gave way under brute force. The door slammed inward with such violence that Beatrice was thrown backward, landing hard on the floor.

Before she could even process what was happening, several heavily built men stormed into her room.

The one leading the pack stood nearly six and a half feet tall, his bare arms covered in vicious tattoos. A dark brown scar carved a path from his left eyebrow down to his right jaw, giving his already brutal face an even more menacing edge.

This man was Jacques Leroy—a name that struck fear throughout Luminous City's underworld.

Most who knew him only dared call him "Scarface Jacques."

He was the head of the Fiery Cross, and Damien's sworn enemy in Eldoria—a rivalry that had festered for years.

Beatrice knew none of this.

Jacques strode toward her, staring down from his towering height. His rough, calloused hand shot out and grabbed her chin, forcing her head up.

He squinted at her through murky gray-blue eyes, looking her up and down before letting out a cold laugh. "Not bad looking. No wonder you caught Damien's eye."

Beatrice's jaw throbbed under his brutal grip, but she refused to show an ounce of fear. She met his gaze head-on, speaking in fluent Eldorian: "Who are you? I don't know anyone named Damien. You've got the wrong room."

"Wrong room?" Jacques burst into laughter as if she'd just told the funniest joke he'd ever heard. His grip on her chin tightened viciously.

"Ms. Sinclair, you spent fifteen minutes locked in a fitting room with Damien at that boutique. And you're telling me you don't know him?"

Beatrice's heart plummeted.

Before she could respond, two of Jacques's men shoved someone into the room. The person stumbled forward and collapsed on the floor right in front of Beatrice.

Beatrice looked up and instantly recognized her.

It was the saleswoman from the boutique that afternoon.

The woman was trembling violently, her face streaked with tears. She sat crumpled on the floor, too terrified to even lift her head.

Jacques kicked the woman's side with his boot, his voice dripping with menace. "I'm asking you one more time. Is this the woman who was in the fitting room with Damien today?"

The saleswoman's trembling intensified.

She raised her head, eyes locking onto Beatrice's face like a drowning person clutching at a lifeline. After barely two seconds of hesitation, she nodded frantically, words tumbling out in a panicked rush: "Yes! It's her! I saw it with my own eyes!"

"Sir, I'm not lying! It really was her!"

Jacques let out a cold laugh and released Beatrice's chin. He jerked his head at his men, barking out two words: "Take her."

Two thugs immediately moved forward, each grabbing one of Beatrice's arms.

Beatrice fought against their grip, shouting in French: "Let go of me! This is kidnapping! I'll call the police!"

"The police?" Jacques sneered, bending down until his face was inches from hers. The scar twisted grotesquely with the movement, making him look even more terrifying. "In Luminous City, my word is the law."

"Damien hurt three of my men and torched two of my warehouses. I can't touch him yet—but his woman? That's easy pickings."

He straightened up and waved dismissively at his men before striding out of the room.

Beatrice's mouth was stuffed with cloth, her arms pinned so tightly she couldn't break free. The two thugs dragged her bodily toward the door.

Her mind raced, desperately searching for an escape route. But the hallway was dead silent—no guests, no staff. Only the red light of a security camera blinked uselessly at the elevator bank, powerless to stop these brazen criminals.

They shoved her into a black van waiting in the underground parking garage. The doors slammed shut with a heavy thud, and the engine roared to life. Tires screeched against concrete as the vehicle tore out of the hotel garage and merged into Luminous City's late-night traffic.

At the exact moment the van sped away from the hotel, John stepped out of the elevator carrying two insulated food bags.

He'd noticed Beatrice had gone to bed early and worried she might wake up hungry in the middle of the night. So he'd driven all the way to Chinatown to pick up her favorite Cantonese congee and dim sum, planning to check if she wanted a late-night snack.

When John reached Beatrice's door, he froze.

The door hung wide open. The lock showed clear signs of forced entry. Light spilled out from inside, illuminating the hallway carpet. The room beyond was a disaster.

John's heart leapt into his throat. The food bags nearly slipped from his hands. He rushed inside, calling out urgently: "Bea? Beatrice?"

The room was empty. The bedcovers were thrown back, her slippers scattered across the carpet. The coffee table had been knocked askew.

The only person there was a woman slumped on the floor, shaking like a leaf.

It was the saleswoman from the boutique.

John lunged forward and grabbed her by the collar, hauling her to her feet. Fury blazed in his eyes as his voice turned ice-cold: "Where's Beatrice? Where is she?!"

The saleswoman nearly fainted from terror. Tears streamed down her face as she stammered in broken English, her voice thick with sobs: "Taken... taken by gangsters... A group of men with guns... they took her..."

The food bags slipped from John's hands and hit the floor. Hot congee spilled across the carpet.

He released the saleswoman and bolted toward Emily's room next door, slamming his fist against the door with enough force to nearly splinter the wood.

"Emily! Open the door! Right now!"

Silence.

A vein bulged at John's temple. He yanked out his phone and dialed Emily's number. The phone rang endlessly before finally being answered.

Emily's groggy voice drifted through the speaker, still heavy with sleep: "Hello? John? It's the middle of the night. Why are you calling me?"

"Open the door!" John took a deep breath, forcing down the rage threatening to explode from his throat. Each word came out clipped and sharp.

A few seconds later, the door swung open.

Emily stood there in cartoon pajamas, hair disheveled, sleep still clouding her features. But when she caught sight of John's ashen face, she snapped fully awake. Her brow furrowed. "What's wrong? Why are you pounding on my door in the middle of the night?"

John stepped aside, pointing down the hall toward Beatrice's open doorway. His voice trembled despite his best efforts to control it.

"Bea's gone."