Chapter 91
Chapter 91:
Her bra and panties were soaked through.
Not a good idea to leave them on.
Mirabelle squirmed when he reached for the bra clasp, but his voice cut through the fog again—low, steady, close to her ear.
“It’s me. Ashton. You’re safe now p>
Her breath hitched, then she went still.
He stripped off the last of the soaked fabric, toweled her off again, and reached for the change of clothes.
A white dress shirt and suit trousers, both at least two sizes too big.
They were his.
There were women in the house—his brother’s wife, his stepmother—but the idea of Mirabelle wearing anything of theirs made something primal crawl under his skin.
He slipped the shirt over her shoulders, buttoned it up, and rolled the cuffs.
The trousers he folded at the waist and cinched loosely with one of his ties.
She looked like she’d wandered out of his closet half-asleep, hair damp, skin flushed, drowning in layers of fabric.
Her eyes were barely open.
She was somewhere else entirely.
Ashton stood and shifted his weight, running a hand over his collar like it was strangling him.
His own suit was drenched and clinging to him, but he didn’t care.
Eventually, Mirabelle’s breathing began to even out.
Her lashes stopped twitching. She wasn’t shivering as much.
He stayed.
Let your imagination soar with gαℓησν𝒆𝓁s．çο𝗺
A maid returned with a hairdryer.
Ashton took it, set it to the lowest and least noisy setting, and gently worked through her hair with his fingers as the warm air blew softly.
Mirabelle didn’t let go of his shirt the entire time, her hand clenched in the fabric.
A knock.
Another maid stepped in, balancing a tray.
“Here’s the hot chocolate you asked for, Mr. Laurent p>
“Leave it on the table p>
He stayed by her side, her fingers still twisted in his shirt, murmuring to her under his breath. Over and over.
“You’re safe p>
“I’m here p>
“You’re safe now p>
Gradually, her shivering stopped.
She curled into the blanket he’d tucked around her and didn’t move.
Ashton stood, eyes scanning her face.
She looked young like this. Defenseless.
Barely recognizable as the woman who’d once dragged him off a bar stool and hauled him into the nearest hotel room.
He turned to the maid. “Stay with her. If she wakes up, get her anything she asks for. And inform me immediately p>
“Yes, Mr. Laurent p>
He lingered for a second longer, then walked out.
In another room, he changed into a fresh suit.
Pausing at the top of the staircase landing, he surveyed the crowd below.
Quentin was flapping a towel uselessly around a woman, who sat on a sofa, dripping, face pale. She had clearly taken a dip.
Hair soaked, dress plastered to her skin, mascara running down in tiny rivulets.
But otherwise, her breathing was easy, her eyes clear, her voice functional.
Ashton stepped into the living room.
The crowd silenced instantly, then shifted, parting without being asked.
Isobel stood up immediately, her spine snapping straight, an automatic response of most people when they met Ashton face to face for the first time.
“Mr. Laurent,” she said with wide eyes and forced concern. “How’s Mirabelle? I hope she’s okay p>
“She’s resting.” His tone could have iced a cocktail. “What happened p>
She repeated the little monologue she’d just fed the others—high school, old friends, catching up, slippery tiles.
“She must’ve panicked,” Isobel added, wringing her fingers. “When she slipped, she just grabbed for me. I don’t think she even realized it p>
Quentin eased forward gingerly. “Ashton, um, can I use one of the rooms upstairs? Isobel’s soaked through. She’s freezing. I want her to change into something dry p>
Ashton didn’t look at him. “Just a second p>
Then he pivoted back to the star of the sob story. “You’re telling me Mirabelle pulled you into the water p>
Isobel blinked rapidly.
Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
A second too long passed.
She gave an involuntary shudder, this time not from the cold.
“I mean… I guess she did, sort of. She was probably just startled. I’m sure it wasn’t intentional.” Her eyes slid away.
Ashton’s fingers twitched.
The urge to physically drag the truth out of her was visceral.
He didn’t, of course.
But it sat there, humming under his skin like static.
Without Mirabelle here, Isobel must have thought she could spin whatever tale she liked.
And maybe with someone else, it would have worked.
But Ashton trusted Mirabelle.
Even if she’d been half-drowned and half-delirious, he trusted her more than he’d ever trust a stranger wrapped in a damp towel and bad acting.
“Are you sure that’s what happened?” he asked, giving her one last chance to come clean.
Isobel missed it completely.
Her fingers clutched at the terry cloth. “Yeah, I think so. I mean, it all happened so fast p>
“If I pull the surveillance footage, will it back up your version?” Ashton asked.
She didn’t know the cameras had been turned off at the request of a few privacy-obsessed guests.
And Ashton wasn’t about to enlighten her.
Panic flashed in her eyes.
Isobel turned to Quentin with a desperate look.
He ventured, “Ashton, why don’t we deal with this later, yeah? Let’s get Isobel upstairs before she catches pneumonia p>
“She can leave when she answers the question,” Ashton said flatly.
His eyes never left her face. “Will the tape back you up? Or not p>
She blinked. Fast.
He could almost see the internal map in her mind, scrambling to remember where the cameras were.
He didn’t fill the silence.
Just stared.
She buckled.
Not visibly, but he saw it.
The flinch behind the eyes.
The slight hitch in her breath.
He stepped forward.
Only a fraction.
Twenty centimeters, maybe.
But it was enough.
Isobel jolted like she’d been shocked, stumbling back onto the sofa without meaning to.
Her throat worked around words that never made it out.
Quentin dropped into a crouch beside her, resting one hand on her shoulder.
Even he looked uneasy now.
“Come on, honey,” he said, voice a notch too high. “Just tell Ashton what you saw, then we can go get you changed p>
Isobel licked her lips.
A small voice piped up from the far side of the room.
“I saw what happened p>