Chapter 4
Tristan's cold laughter echoed through the bathroom. His grip on Rowan's wrist was iron-hard.
"Get off me! Get away!"
Rowan twisted her hand, grabbing at anything within reach with the other. Cleaning supplies scattered across the bathroom floor.
"What, you really think the Hall family's time comes that easy?" Tristan panted heavily. "Actually, it's pretty damn easy. Just spread your legs, sleep with me once, and you're done."
The more Rowan struggled, the tighter Tristan gripped. He yanked her into his arms, one large hand clamping around her waist.
Rowan's slender waist was even softer than he'd imagined.
Tristan grinned.
"Look at you, dressed like a slut in that red dress. What, playing bride? Then I'll make you my bride every night."
Rowan fell silent.
The red dress—she'd had no choice.
Ever since meeting Kingsley again, her closet had been filled with nothing but red dresses.
One got torn, another appeared. Endless.
Rowan knew this was Kingsley's hatred manifesting. He hated her for humiliating him at her birthday party in that bold red dress.
His patience exhausted, Tristan had no interest in playing cat and mouse. His hand yanked hard. The red dress tore with a ripping sound, exposing her smooth, rounded shoulders and a tantalizing glimpse of her chest.
The flash of pale skin made Tristan's eyes turn red. He pounced, pinning Rowan against the bathroom door, his mouth clamping down on her exposed shoulder.
Afraid her screams would attract unwanted attention, Tristan clamped his hand over Rowan's mouth.
With her mouth covered, Rowan could only make muffled sounds.
The sound of a belt unbuckling made Rowan's pupils contract. Her already-dizzy head spun worse.
She shook her head, her gaze falling on the mop handle beside her.
In her delirium, Rowan's mind conjured the image of those expensive leather shoes in the private room. The swirling red wine.
Kingsley, killing someone means paying with your life, right? If I die, will you finally stop hating me? Stop hating my family?
In the private room, Blake glanced toward the door for the tenth time. "That bastard Tristan just went to take a piss. Why isn't he back yet? Don't tell me he spotted some woman and ditched us."
He spoke carelessly. Someone listened carefully.
In the darkness, those black leather shoes moved. Kingsley stood.
"Move."
"Kingsley, what—you gotta piss too? Makes sense for Tristan, he's fucked so many women his kidneys are shot, but why are you—"
Kingsley ignored Blake's rambling and pushed through the door.
End of the corridor. The bathroom.
When Kingsley arrived, he found Rowan slumped on the floor, looking utterly lost.
The area by the stall door was a mess. Cleaning bottles and supplies scattered everywhere. A broken wooden stick clutched tightly in Rowan's hand.
On the white tile floor, blood was slowly spreading.
Tristan lay face-down. Bright red blood trickled from his forehead, merging with the pool on the floor.
The scene was horrifying.
Kingsley's eyes narrowed. For the first time, a flicker of tension crossed his expressionless face.
He strode forward quickly, not even glancing at Tristan's body. His eyes were only on Rowan—her face deathly pale, her exposed skin covered in unnatural red welts.
He frowned.
Blake arrived a beat later and froze at the sight.
"Kingsley—"
"Take him. Some parts can be permanently damaged."
Blake glanced at the woman Kingsley was shielding with his body. That familiar red dress.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"Got it. I'll handle it."
Rowan didn't know how she got to the hospital. Didn't know how the doctor bandaged her hand.
When she regained consciousness, she was already in a hospital room with an IV in her arm.
Beside her sat Kingsley, his face dark and expressionless.
Realizing he must have saved her, a flicker of hope sparked in her heart. Did he still care about her?
"Thank you for saving me."
"My dog. Only I get to abuse it. No one else."
Rowan fell silent.
The light of hope in her eyes shattered.
Of course. Kingsley hated her so much. Hated her enough to watch her drink ten glasses of high-proof liquor, knowing full well she was allergic to alcohol.
Someone who didn't care whether she lived or died—why would he save her?
"Kingsley, everything's been handled—"
The hospital room door opened. Blake strode in, shooting a resentful glance at the now-conscious Rowan before turning to Kingsley.
Blake was about to say more when Kingsley's cool gaze silenced him. He swallowed the rest of his words.
"It's getting cold. The Hall family can go bankrupt now."
Blake was shocked.
"Kingsley!"
"What's mine—even if it's just a dog—Tristan had no right to touch."
It should have been a possessive statement. But Rowan's heart filled with sorrow.
A dog. That's all she was to him. Just a dog.
Due to the severe allergic reaction, Rowan stayed in the hospital for three full days. Kingsley never appeared once during that time.
Three days later, Rowan was discharged.
As for the medical bills—the hospital belonged to Kingsley.
At the hospital entrance, watching people come and go, Rowan pulled her collar tighter. It was only early autumn. Why did it feel so cold?
She looked around. No sign of Kingsley's car.
She laughed bitterly at herself. Rowan, what are you expecting?
A horn sounded. A black Rolls-Royce pulled up and stopped. The door opened.
"Ms. Lavien, Mr. FitzRoy asked me to pick you up."
Kingsley's personal assistant—Howard Bell.
Rowan had seen him before at the company.
"Mr. Bell, I... can I not go back?"
Howard remained silent, standing motionless in front of Rowan. The car door stayed open.
The meaning was clear.
When it came to Kingsley, Rowan had no right to refuse.
She gathered her clothes and got in the car, closing her eyes and letting it carry her forward.
Sunrise Mansion. Kingsley's home.
"Ms. Lavien, Mr. FitzRoy is waiting for you upstairs."
Rowan got out, went upstairs, and opened Kingsley's bedroom door with practiced ease.
Inside, Kingsley leaned against the headboard reading, a white towel wrapped around his waist. His upper body was bare, revealing perfect eight-pack abs.
Seeing Rowan, he barely glanced up.
"Go shower. Wash thoroughly."
Rowan bit her lip, standing stubbornly in place. Unmoving.
"What, feeling better now? Got the energy to defy me?"
