Chapter 34 Lucky It Was Daniel
He saw them clearly—scars crisscrossed her shoulder, old and new tangled together.
Some were fresh, scabbed over from recent scrapes and cuts. Others were dark red, contracted at the edges—burn marks from the fire, small in size but stark against her pale skin.
And more than those… were the countless older scars, faded yet still visible, each a silent record of pain.
And this was only her shoulder.
Alexander stared, his mind going blank for a moment.
He had always known she carried injuries—the burns from the fire, the bruises from their fights, the old bite marks from that night in the basement with the dogs. But this was the first time he had truly faced the full evidence of what had been done to her.
His throat moved almost imperceptibly. A tightness pressed against his chest.
Beyond the physical ache, something else rose inside him—something he didn't want to name.
Shock. Shock at how much of his own actions had been carved into her skin.
And maybe… a flicker of regret?
He released the fabric in his fist as if it burned him, straightening abruptly and stepping back.
Turning away from her, he drew in several deep breaths.
His hand went to his loosened tie, tugging at it in agitation before dragging a palm down his face.
The silence stretched until his voice broke it—cold and rigid. "What a damn mess."
Without another word, he walked out.
Caroline lay frozen on the bed, her gown hanging in shreds.
She blinked twice, slow and weak, before the tears finally slid free.
So even these scars—born of pain and madness—were nothing to him but a mess.
Fine.
At least he had left.
At least, this time, he hadn't forced her to have sex.
She should be grateful... shouldn't she?
Alexander strode down the corridor, only stopping when he reached the elevator. He bent slightly, bracing a hand against the wall, breathing hard.
Why had he felt regret for Caroline?
Even if she was covered in wounds, they were nothing but her due punishment.
And yet… he had stopped. He hadn't pushed further. Maybe because he thought it would tear her injuries open again?
The thought only made him more restless.
He yanked at his tie until his lungs felt like they could draw air again.
No. He had never regretted a single thing he'd done. He had never felt pity for that woman.
What happened just now was nothing but a human instinctive reaction to scars.
And no man would seek lust from a body covered in them.
With that, his pulse steadied.
He smoothed his suit, reached for the elevator button—then his phone rang.
Celeste's syrupy voice poured through the line. "Alex, how's Caroline?"
"She's not dead yet," Alexander ground out.
"That's good." Celeste sounded relieved. "I heard it was Caroline's college friend Daniel who got her to the hospital? Lucky it was him."
Alexander's brow furrowed. "What do you mean by that?"
A short, awkward laugh from Celeste. "You... didn't know? It's nothing. Just that it was a familiar face who saved her. Caroline's lucky."
"I want the truth." His tone dropped to ice.
Celeste hesitated. "If I tell you, you can't get mad. She's still hurt..."
A low hum from Alexander signaled her to go on.
Whatever she said next turned his face to stone.
Recovery was slow.
Since that day in the hospital room, Alexander hadn't returned.
Her fractured leg remained bound in its cast, the other injuries healing in their own time.
Doctors and nurses came for daily rounds and dressing changes. Otherwise, no one visited.
The days grew quiet. Too quiet.
At last, she was discharged.
Caroline carried her small, worn handbag, making her way down the stairs.
A black sedan waited at the entrance.
The driver was Alexander's bodyguard. Without expression, he opened the rear door for her.
She slid inside. The engine started, the city rolling past in a blur.
Her heart sank as the route confirmed her suspicion—they were headed toward the apartment.
But the car didn't take her to the luxury building by Rosewood Park. Instead, it turned into the city center, threading through busy streets before stopping at a discreet private club.
It was the kind of place where Grandhaven's elite came for private deals... or pleasure.
She had been to similar venues once or twice with her father, and she had hated the atmosphere.
The bodyguard stepped out, opening her door. "Mrs. Hamilton. Mr. Hamilton is waiting in the Crown Suite."
Her stomach dropped.
The Crown Suite was the top-floor private lounge, reserved for the highest-tier VIPs. In all of Grandhaven—maybe the whole country—only a handful had access.
She remembered once, years ago, seeing a lavishly dressed businessman step out of the elevator there. She'd been curious, leaning to look, until her father stopped her.
He told her not to stare. Not to ask questions.
But she had seen the women too—wearing barely more than suggestion, heading for the same elevator. Even then, she'd guessed enough.
Her instincts screamed that nothing good waited for her inside.
She wanted to refuse.
But the bodyguard stood like a statue, silent, immovable. If she didn't go in, he would stand there forever.
Caroline closed her eyes.
What was coming couldn't be avoided.
Drawing a breath, she followed him through the heavy gilded doors.
The Crown Suite's door was ajar. From inside came pounding music and the sound of men laughing.
The bodyguard pushed it open. "Madam, please."
Caroline's fists clenched as she stepped in, her gait still uneven.
Smoke hung in the air, thick with the mix of cigars, perfume, and expensive incense. The scent was suffocating.
Her stomach churned.
In the center of the room sprawled a massive circular sofa. Several men lounged there, women draped over them, wearing almost nothing.
The women laughed, feeding drinks to the men, letting hands wander freely.
On the central seat sat Alexander.
A glass of whiskey rested in his hand, swirling lazily.
The moment she entered, his gaze locked on her.
All eyes turned to the doorway.
A slight lift of his chin told her to come forward.
Her palms went damp.
She forced her feet to move, walking into the weight of their stares.
Just before she reached the sofa, the man in gold-rimmed glasses who had been speaking to Alexander clapped his hands sharply.
From the shadows, a woman emerged—dressed in black lace lingerie, draped in a sheer veil that left little to the imagination.