Chapter 558

Andrew Lane said nothing, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.
Cynthia shot Alex White a look of pure annoyance. “Seriously, Alex White? Don’t tell me you’re expecting me to drag you home again?”
Alex just covered his eyes with his hand, staying silent.
She nudged him with her foot, impatient.
Still, no response.
Rolling her eyes, Cynthia huffed. “I’m going to the bathroom. Try not to pass out while I’m gone.”
She headed for the restroom on that floor, only to find every stall occupied. After waiting-impatiently, of course with no sign of anyone coming out, she gave up and went downstairs.
The moment she reached the bottom of the stairs, someone rushed past and nearly collided with her.
Cynthia jerked backward, barely managing to avoid being knocked over.
She bit her tongue, just barely restraining herself from cursing out loud.
Annoyed, she turned to see who it was.
A woman had collapsed onto the floor, sitting in a heap and bracing herself with one hand, her breathing ragged and quick.
This time, Cynthia got a good look-she recognized this woman immediately. It was the same person who’d been blocked at the stairwell earlier.
Cynthia’s brows knitted together as she walked over for a closer look.
The woman had her head down, hair a messy curtain hiding her face.
Cynthia crouched, peering closer, and suddenly her expression darkened, her frown deepening.
She knew this woman.
She would recognize her anywhere-even if she’d been reduced to ashes.
It was Emily Blair-Tristan Davis’s current girlfriend.
No doubt about it. That face was unforgettable.
If it weren’t for Emily Blair, Cynthia would probably be engaged to Tristan Davis by
now.
Cynthia bit her lip and stood up, glaring at Emily with a mix of fury and stubborn pride.
Unbelievable-why did this woman have to show up here too? She’d had enough.
When she’d first approached, she’d noticed something was off with Emily-not just the usual drunken mess, but something worse. Her breath was rapid and shallow, her hair and clothes were a disaster. Cynthia suspected she’d been drugged.
Originally, Cynthia had been tempted to help out-after all, even if she didn’t know Emily’s address, she could at least get her to a hotel. It wasn’t safe for a woman to be alone and that vulnerable in a place like this, surrounded by all kinds of people.
But then she realized who it was. Emily Blair-her rival in love.
No way was Cynthia going to play Good Samaritan for her.
Let her deal with her own problems. If anything happened, it was no concern of Cynthia’s.
With a toss of her hair, Cynthia turned to leave, but then she caught sight of a group of men in the crowd—unshaven, leering, clearly circling like vultures.
Cynthia clenched her jaw, forcing herself to keep walking, feet pounding up the stairs.
But after just a few steps, she stopped dead, dropping her head in frustration and smacking her own cheeks with her hands.
Cynthia Rivera, you’re hopeless. If you can grit your teeth and help your own rival, you’ll succeed at anything.
She pulled out her phone, muttering under her breath.
Just this once. Never again. Absolutely never again.
Reluctantly, she scrolled through her contacts, found Tristan Davis at the top, and fired off a message:
“DESTINY, Emily Blair’s drunk. She’s here alone, no friends. You’d better get here fast-if anything happens, it’s on you.”
It was late, but Tristan replied in seconds:
Cynthia felt her teeth ache with irritation.
Normally, Tristan took days to answer her messages, if he bothered at all. But now, in the middle of the night, he was glued to his phone-obviously because of Emily Blair.
Fuming, Cynthia shot back a curt, “Don’t waste time,” then shoved her phone away and walked off without a backward glance.