Chapter 281: Provocation
“So, why does my father want me to meet that woman? To marry her?” Pierre asked coolly.
Although he was intrigued by Alison, he had no interest in marriage.
A lifelong rake, he found Alison an unusual challenge—one that forced him to rethink his usual game: possess her first, then make her love him.
“Mr. Bruce, what do you think?” Owen asked.
“Who is Alison’s husband?” Pierre demanded. He didn’t believe Aidan was really the man.
“Mr. Bruce, didn’t you already find out?” Owen countered.
“Forget it. No point asking. I deliberately didn’t look into it. I want her to tell me herself—that’s the real thrill,” Pierre said with a low laugh.
“Your dad just thinks the women around you aren’t good enough, so he’s switching things up. See how much he cares?” Owen explained.
Pierre glanced back at Alison and smirked. “Owen, don’t let me catch my father with any hidden motives. Otherwise, you know the consequences.”
“Haha, Mr. Bruce, you’re such a joker. He’s your father—what other motives could he have?” Owen chuckled.
“Hmph. I don’t buy it. He’s never been this eager to push someone on me before. He even sent you to drag me to the Champs-Élysées himself? Does he take me for a fool?” Pierre snapped.
“Haha! Father and son indeed. The truth is, your dad just wants you to spoil her rotten. Once you’ve had your fill, dump her. That way, she’ll hurt for the rest of her life,” Owen said, revealing Matthew Bruce’s true intent.
Pierre’s fist struck Owen’s chest—not hard, but sharp enough to warn. “Does he hate her that much?”
“I’m not sure, but he definitely doesn’t like her,” Owen replied.
Pierre frowned.
“Got it. I’m heading downstairs.”
His gaze drifted back to the lobby.
So that’s it—Father wants her for himself, and I’m just the pawn. Was it really necessary to involve me?
Pierre’s polished shoes echoed against the marble as he descended, eyes fixed on Alison below.
He wet his lips absently.
The sight of her in that gown stirred something primal; his lower body tightened with hunger.
He couldn’t remember the last time desire had hit him this hard.
Every time she resisted, it only fanned the fire.
Meanwhile, Alison was heading toward a side exit of the hotel.
She found the air-conditioning stifling, heat crawling under her skin. Maybe it was the alcohol; it always brought that restless burn.
When she finally slipped free of the crowd and reached the door, she tugged at the neckline of her gown—it felt like she was suffocating.
The cool breeze rushed against her flushed skin. She stepped into the garden, shadows of trees rippling around her.
Leaning against a trunk, she felt not just heat but a strange weakness in her legs.
Her body grew hotter, the warmth turning into a languid ache.
Her limbs lost strength, and a faint itch prickled over her skin. Her thoughts blurred; she tried to steady her breathing—but it was useless.
Glancing back down the path, she saw a figure approaching.
Her heart stuttered.
It was Pierre.
Realization struck like ice.
This was all his doing.
She turned and ran, but after only a few steps, her knees buckled. She gasped for air.
Gathering the hem of her skirt, she tried to keep running; the movement brought brief relief—but bared the pale line of her legs.
Pierre’s pace quickened. The echo of his footsteps closed in.
Her mind swam, her body trembling under the feverish rush of heat.
She hated him—hated herself for being powerless now.
It was too late for regret; her will had already lost control of her body.