Chapter 501
Chapter 501:
I glanced at the caller ID. Declined it. “We could grab dinner after.” It rang again. Same name. I declined.
Then it rang a third time. Relentless.
“You should take that,” Mira said, watching me. “Looks serious p>
I tore down Rue de Rivoli, swerved past Boulevard Haussmann, and headed for the 8th arrondissement, probably breaking half a dozen traffic laws along the way.
My car screeched to a stop in front of the Hotel Plaza Athénée. I jumped out, tossed the keys to the valet, rushed past the smiling concierge trying to greet me, and jabbed the lift button. Lea’s screams still rang in my ears.
She had sounded terrified on the phone. There hadn’t been time to think—just react.
The lift crawled upwards. Agonizingly slow.
When the doors finally opened, I stepped out into a softly lit hallway, carpeted, perfumed, and decorated to tasteful perfection.
But no amount of piped jazz or high-end fragrance could cover the drunken yelling or the reek of stale booze.
Pierre Marchand was slamming his fists against the door of room 602, knuckles bleeding onto his monogrammed shirt cuffs, not that he cared. I grabbed his shoulders and spun him around to face me.
Even flushed with rage, alcohol—and whatever else he’d taken—he still had that annoyingly textbook-handsome face: blue eyes, high-bridged nose, thin lips, strong jaw.
His eyes were bloodshot and rimmed red. “Who the hell are you?” he slurred in French.
I didn’t answer. I just kept my grip firm so he couldn’t keep hammering the door.
“Let go of me, you fuck!” he roared, spraying me with breath that stank of whisky and something more chemical.
The lift dinged behind me. Fast, quiet footsteps approached.
𝗨𝗽𝗱𝗮𝘁𝗲𝘀 𝗳𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱 𝗼𝗻
“Boss,” one of the men said.
“Take him. Keep him contained. No phone calls p>
“Understood p>
Pierre might have dabbled in fencing, but that wasn’t going to help him against four men built for real combat, not gym selfies. They hauled him into the lift, still kicking and flailing.
I looked up at the CCTV in the ceiling. Red lights blinked back at me, unblinking. Then I knocked. “Lea. It’s me. Ashton p>
The door flew open, and Lea threw herself into my arms. “Ash. Thank God you’re here! Is he…?” She was trembling.
“He’s gone.” I stepped into the room behind her. “Tell me what happened p>
Lea sat down on the ottoman. The carpet around it was littered with crumpled tissues. Her face was blotchy, eyes raw from crying. She stared at the floor.
“I… I called him after you left p>
“When I specifically told you not to p>
“I know. I’m sorry.” She still wouldn’t look at me. “I just thought… if I told him what you told me, that if he really loved me, he’d quit the drinking, the drugs. And if he couldn’t, I’d leave. I didn’t know he was already in Paris. I thought p>
She put her face in her hands. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I swear p>
“You told him you were staying here p>