Chapter 18 I Prefer the Glamorous Kind
Sherry bit back the pain, her voice soft but strained. "I'm fine, Mindy. Could you have someone take me to the hospital?"
Armando dropped to one knee, his gaze falling to her ankle. The swelling was already angry and red. He stood, scooping her into his arms in one smooth motion. "I'll take you myself."
Sherry shook her head, eyes glistening. "No... if you leave the banquet tonight, your grandma will hear about it and blame me."
"Sherry, who cares about the banquet right now? Let Ms. Penrose handle it herself," Mindy chimed in.
Elizabeth's expression was cool, her voice clipped. "Miss Scott grabbed my arm when I was trying to leave. She held on, lost her balance, and fell. It has nothing to do with me. I didn't push her."
She turned to go.
Armando's gaze hardened. "Whether you pushed her or not, she's hurt. You should apologize."
Elizabeth's lips curved into a dangerous smile, her beauty edged with defiance. "And if I don't? Will you threaten me again?"
His frown deepened, as if she were the one causing trouble. But right now, Sherry's injury came first. Without another word, he carried her toward the exit.
Elizabeth clenched her fists, drawing a slow breath. A pack of vultures...
"Armando, put me down," Sherry whispered, tears streaking down her cheeks. "If people see us like this..."
He looked at her, guilt flickering in his eyes. "It's fine. I'll get you there."
Mindy brushed past Elizabeth deliberately, her shoulder catching Elizabeth's. In heels, Elizabeth staggered, her lower back slamming into the sharp edge of a wall molding. Pain radiated instantly.
She caught herself against the wall, then reached out and yanked Mindy's dress. The woman gasped as she stumbled backward, landing hard on the floor.
"Elizabeth!"
"If you want to make a scene, shout louder," Elizabeth said coldly. "We're at a banquet, after all."
She gave her a final glance and walked away.
Armando carrying Sherry out did not go unnoticed. From across the room, faces turned, eyes narrowing in curiosity. They couldn't see clearly who was in his arms, but their gaze shifted toward Elizabeth, hungry for gossip.
Beatrix raised her glass, offering polite apologies to nearby guests. "A relative's daughter twisted her ankle. Armando's taking her to the hospital. I hope it doesn't spoil the evening."
Her composure dulled the crowd's curiosity.
"Come with me," Beatrix said under her breath, her tone edged in frost.
In the VIP lounge, Beatrix sat while Elizabeth stood.
"Elizabeth, do you know what tonight is? And you choose this moment to get into a shoving match?"
Beatrix wasn't defending Sherry—she simply refused to let the Johnson family become someone's after-dinner entertainment.
"I didn't push her," Elizabeth said evenly.
"I don't care whether you did or not. I don't want this turning into a public joke. That's all. You can go."
Elizabeth left the lounge, irritation coiling in her chest. That restless urge to escape, crushed under the weight of reality.
As one of the hosts tonight, she still had guests to face.
When the banquet finally ended, she sank into the sofa in the VIP reception room, rubbing her sore back. She waited for Cruz from the hotel staff—she wanted the security footage from earlier near the restroom.
Her phone rang. Armando's name lit up the screen. She ignored it.
At the hospital, Armando's expression darkened when she didn't answer. He switched to a text.
It read: [Elizabeth, don't go back to Emerald Park tonight. I told Grandma we'd be staying out.]
Elizabeth read the message and let out a dry laugh.
The Carlton Hotel's top floor held only one grand suite, reserved for high-profile guests, complete with a private rooftop pool.
From the pool emerged Timothy Robinson, tall and lean, water sliding down his skin. Nico, a hotel attendant, hurried forward with a towel. "Mr. Robinson."
Timothy took it, drying his hair and shoulders before pulling on a white robe. His expression was unreadable. "What is it?"
Nico smiled. "I brought someone up to help you relax with a massage."
A woman in a white dress stood nearby—Orla—her face flushed with excitement and shyness. Only guests of the top floor carried such status, and she was confident in her looks.
Timothy picked up a cigarette case, sat down, and gave Nico a half-smile. "Since when does our hotel offer that kind of service? I'm not into the innocent type."
Nico blinked, unsure. "Should I find someone else?"
Most men liked the contrast—sweet on the surface, wild in bed. Orla was exactly that.
Timothy's eyes narrowed, the flame of his lighter flickering as he pressed it again and again. "I prefer the glamorous kind."
Nico nodded quickly. "I'll get someone glamorous."
Timothy lit his cigarette, then his voice dropped into a sudden chill. "Our hotel doesn't need this. It drags down the class. You can leave Carlton Hotel tomorrow."
Sweat broke across Nico's back. He was finished.
His phone rang. Flustered, he fumbled it, accidentally hitting speaker.
"Nico, Mrs. Johnson wants to see tonight's footage," Cruz, the banquet's event manager, said.
Normally, guest privacy meant footage wasn't released without clearance.
Nico glanced at Timothy, forcing a smile. "I'll handle it later."
Before he could hang up, a long-fingered hand took the phone.
"Which Mrs. Johnson?"
Cruz hesitated at the change in voice, then answered, "Elizabeth."
Timothy leaned back, cigarette at his lips. "What happened?"
"Some incident during the banquet. I don't know the details."
"Bring her to the top floor."
Timothy ended the call, tossing the phone back to Nico. "Find out what happened."
Relief flashed in Nico's eyes. "Yes, sir." He hurried out, signaling Orla to follow.
Elizabeth arrived with Cruz by elevator.
"Mrs. Johnson, please," Cruz said, opening the door.
Elizabeth glanced inside, but didn't step in. Her brows drew together. "Why here?"
Who discussed business in a stranger's hotel suite? She took a step back, her phone already unlocked in her hand—ready to hit emergency call if needed.
Cruz said nothing. It wasn't ideal, but Timothy lived here, and Cruz had no choice.
Inside, Timothy sat at the bar in his robe, swirling a glass of liquor, having heard every note of suspicion in her voice.