The Innocent Girl Who Stole His Heart

Chapter 6

"How dare you satirize me?" Adrian's low growl was a dangerous undercurrent, his words still echoing in the empty space where Neeve had been. He sat up in bed, the warmth of her lingering scent a subtle torment. "I just wanted to confirm if truly I can't get you turned on, and now it's confirmed." His tone, despite the sting of the slap, held a hint of infuriating smugness, a quiet victory in their twisted game.

"You bastard!" "It's my fault for climbing into your bed!" Neeve's voice, cracking with a mixture of fury and humiliation, had been her parting shot as she slammed the guest room door behind her.

Adrian lay there for a moment, the echo of her words clinging to the air like a phantom. He ran a hand through his dark hair, a mix of amusement and something he couldn't quite place swirling within him. He kept rephrasing her words in his mind, turning them over, analyzing them. You Bastard, it's my fault for climbing into your bed. A small, almost bewildered smile touched his lips. "Have I gone too far?" he asked no one in particular, his voice softer now. For the first time in fourteen years, the restless current of his thoughts stilled, the constant hum of business and ambition quieted, and he drifted into a deep, dreamless slumber. A profound, unexpected peace settled over him.

Meanwhile, Neeve’s humiliation simmered, burning hotter than any anger. The plush bed in the guest room, so inviting just moments before, now felt like a trap. Hating the lingering feel of her damp, soiled dress, she threw back the covers. The garment still stank, a sickening mixture of rain, expensive restaurant food, and her own lingering anxiety. She couldn’t possibly wear it again. The thought alone made her skin crawl; she would feel utterly uncomfortable, itchy, and perpetually reminded of the night’s indignities.

Determined, she hurried across the luxurious room and reached out into the adjoining bathroom, a sanctuary of white marble and gleaming chrome. She quickly had her bath, scrubbing away the remnants of the night’s debauchery and the subsequent downpour. Her skin, now fresh and clean, felt alien against the thought of her dirty clothes. She wrapped the thick, fluffy duvet around her chest, securing it tightly, and tiptoed gently towards the arrogant jerk's room. She needed clothes, his clothes. Practicality trumped pride, at least for now.

On getting into his room, she found him sleeping soundly, a faint, almost innocent expression on his face. The sight of him, so utterly at peace, while she had been a wreck of emotions just moments ago, ignited a fresh surge of fury. She felt an overwhelming urge to strangle him, the thought of how he had teased her, how he had manipulated her arousal last night, flashing vividly into her memory. Oh, phew! She actually felt like spitting on him, a childish but deeply satisfying urge, but she managed to restrain herself. Not worth it. He's not worth the effort or the mess.

She then made her way into his expansive dressing room, a closet larger than her entire apartment. It was a cavern of luxury, impeccably organized. She gasped, her eyes widening in disbelief at the sheer volume and variety of his wardrobe. "Rows upon rows of tailored suits in every shade imaginable", casual wear that looked effortlessly expensive, racks of athletic gear – an endless range of different outfits meant for every conceivable occasion. "The scent of fine cologne and crisp linen filled the air". "This man really lives a life of obscene luxury", she thought, grudging admiration mixing with her disdain.

She rummaged through the drawers, searching for something, anything, that wasn’t a suit. Luckily, after a few seconds of frantic searching, she found a pair of men's athletic shorts, soft and comfortable, made of a breathable, high-tech fabric. She swiftly pulled them on, the fabric falling loosely around her slender frame, reaching almost to her knees. Next, she found a simple black polo shirt, soft cotton against her skin, with a discreet logo she didn't recognize. She pulled it over her head, the large size swallowing her, the sleeves falling well past her wrists. Her ridiculous, mud-splattered heels from last night were out of the question. She scanned the shoe racks for sneakers and found a pair of sleek, black athletic shoes that, surprisingly, fit her tiny feet almost perfectly. Now I'm good to go! She thought, a triumphant grin spreading across her face.

Then, a new, alarming thought struck her, sending a jolt of panic through her. Oh, jeez, money! Her car was out of gas, stranded somewhere on the road, and she needed to refill it. Her purse, of course, was still empty, left behind in the chaotic escape. She needed cash. His cash.

She opened the first layer of his dresser drawer. Empty. Except for a single, small, transparent polythene bag tucked away neatly in the corner. "OMG!" "This guy can't be poor, or could he?" she whispered to herself, confusion clouding her triumphant mood. Maybe he's a con artist, living off duping people of their money. Neeve soliloquized, a new, outlandish theory forming in her mind. It was a classic rich-girl fantasy of how someone could possibly be both poor and in a luxurious setting.

Could this jerk know about my background? The thought sent a chill down her spine. Is he aware of my mother's influence in the global market? Did he know my mother was the so-called Madame Ruth, who owns the biggest fabric company in all of Los Angeles? A wave of paranoia washed over her.

"Never," she scoffed softly, shaking her head, trying to dismiss the idea. He can't be well-informed. I've been in a low profile since I turned sixteen. "No one knows I'm Madame Ruth's only daughter, the heiress of the fabric company." She squeezed her mouth, a grim determination setting in. Even if he's here to scam me, he won't get anything! I'm not living off my mother. I have already proposed in my heart to earn my own money. She had left home immediately after graduating from high school and was now working as a junior designer in the Dolly Group of Companies, a thriving, albeit smaller, fashion house. She was financially independent, even if temporarily cashless.

She made a move towards the second layer of drawers, pulling it open. Her eyes widened, her jaw dropping, a familiar Neeve-esquire gesture of shock. There, neatly stacked, were packs of condoms. So many of them. Enough to supply a small army. She gasped, looking at them with an icy glare. "This guy is a chronic womanizer," she thought, her disgust rising, twisting her face into a grimace. Mere looking at him, it's as if I should gouge out his eyes and serve them to the vultures.