Chapter 122
Chapter 122:
The penthouse was dark, save for the glow of the city bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Hilliard stood at the glass, a tumbler of scotch in his hand. The amber liquid caught the light, swirling gently as he tilted the glass. He wasn’t drinking it. He was simply holding it, grounding himself against its cold, smooth surface.
On the coffee table behind him, his tablet sat paused on a grainy dashcam image. The sequence of events was unmistakable — the red sports car, the sudden acceleration, the figure in the hoodie hurling herself onto the concrete. It wasn’t an accident. It was an execution attempt.
The private elevator chimed. The sound was soft and polite, but in the silence of the apartment, it landed like a gunshot.
Hilliard didn’t turn around. He already knew who it was. Only three people had the code to the penthouse elevator: his mother, his head of security, and Charla.
Charla stepped into the room wearing a beige trench coat belted tightly at the waist, her hair loose and cascading over her shoulders in soft waves. The bandage was gone from her forehead.
“Hilliard?” Her voice was a practiced coo, carefully calibrated to disarm. “Are you still mad p>
Hilliard took a sip of the scotch. It burned on the way down. “You should be resting. You checked yourself out against medical advice p>
“I couldn’t sleep,” Charla said, moving toward him. Her heels disappeared into the plush carpet, silencing her steps. “I missed you. I hate it when we fight p>
𝘙𝖾𝘢𝗱 𝘰𝗻 𝖺𝗇y 𝘥е𝗏i𝖼𝘦 о𝗇.с𝗼𝘮
She stopped just behind him, close enough that her perfume — something floral, expensive, and overpowering — displaced the subtle scent of the scotch. “I need to feel you,” she whispered. “To know that we are okay p>
She reached out and touched his back. Her hand slid down his spine. With her other hand, she undid the belt of the trench coat. The fabric fell open. Beneath it, she was wearing nothing but black lace lingerie. The gesture was provocative and, beneath the surface, deeply desperate.
Hilliard didn’t move. He didn’t turn to look at her. He studied his own reflection in the darkened glass, her ghostly image hovering behind him.
“Put your clothes on, Charla,” he said. His voice was weary.
Charla’s hand stilled against his lower back. “Why? You used to want me. You used to tear my clothes off in this very room p>
Hilliard turned around slowly. He looked at her — at the lace, at the skin she was offering him. He felt nothing. No desire. No warmth. Only a deep and settled exhaustion.
“That was before you tried to kill my wife,” he said quietly.
Charla flinched as though he had struck her. She drew the coat shut around herself. “Ex-wife. She is your ex-wife p>
“Legally, she is still my wife,” Hilliard corrected. He walked past her to the bar and set his glass down. “I never signed the papers. And you — you are becoming a liability p>
Charla’s face twisted. The mask of seduction cracked, and what surfaced beneath it was raw and ugly.
“You are sleeping with her!” she screamed, the sound ricocheting off the high ceilings. “That’s why you defend her! That’s why you won’t touch me! You’re choosing that trash over me p>