Chapter 695
Slowly and deliberately, he raised it and pulled the trigger. Bang! The light on the far wall shattered. Bang! Another two exploded. He lowered the pistol and blew the faint curl of smoke from the barrel like it was nothing.
Then, calmly, he picked up his phone and dialed. “Three minutes. Get your ass here,” he ordered, not bothering with pleasantries.
Within three minutes, a tall, sultry figure appeared at the doorway. It was Besty Webster. Clad in a sleek, body-hugging black dress, her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths after running over. She looked stunning, but tension clung to her like perfume.
Since becoming Terrence’s woman, Besty had never seen him so furious—especially not with her. In her mind, she had always been the only woman around him, enjoying his undivided attention. He had never so much as snapped at her, let alone allowed anyone else to lay a finger on her.
In the two years she’d known Terrence, this was the first time he had spoken to her in that harsh tone, and it rattled her to the core. A storm of dread churned inside her, twisting through her pride and panic.
Everything she had—her luxury, her status, her identity—was built on Terrence’s affection. And now it all felt terrifyingly fragile. Yes, she adored his wealth and power. But she loved him. She couldn’t bear to lose him. Without him, her world would collapse.
Her hands trembling, Besty pushed the door open and stepped inside. There he was—Terrence—reclining in his chair with deceptive calm.
With a cigar poised between his fingers, every inch of him radiated cool authority. Smoke curled lazily around him, catching the dim light, each flicker adding to the storm-cloud allure that clung to him. His sapphire eyes burned with a cold intensity—deep, glacial, magnetic. They drew focus, impossible to ignore, as if they could unravel thoughts with a single glance.
“Terrence…” Besty’s voice floated in, honeyed and warm. She moved toward him like a slow flame, sinuous and deliberate.
She slid behind Terrence in the chair and looped her arms around his neck. Her manicured fingers trailed from his neck down to his firm, sculpted chest. “Talk to me. Who pissed you off?” she whispered, silk draped in sugar.
Terrence took a long pull from his cigar, smoke ghosting from his lips as he stared ahead, his brows furrowing. He didn’t answer. His irritation, already simmering, flared hotter. Besty, with all her curves and charm, was nothing like Christina, except for those eyes and her frame.
As he sat lost in thought, Besty slid into his lap without hesitation, arms looping around him like ivy, but still, nothing.
He still ignored Besty. His silence grew heavier, the shadows clinging closer, and his scowl carving itself deeper into his face.
Besty didn’t think much of his silence. Whenever he was in a bad mood, he often went quiet like this. She believed a little warmth might melt the ice in his veins—that the usual dance of temptation and touch would coax him back from the edge. It had always worked before. Whenever his fury flared, her caress had been the balm that cooled it.
Confident, she played her familiar card. With a slow tug, she pulled on his tie, drawing him in until their faces nearly touched. One pout, one playful press of lips, and she was sure he would forget whatever had been bothering him.
But she missed the shift—the stillness that came just before the crack of thunder. Terrence’s silence wasn’t smoldering—it was volcanic.