The Beast in Fine Tuxedo

Chapter 2

The family dinner on the eve of the wedding finally came to an end near midnight.

Guests left one after another, their faces flushed with a hint of cheerful intoxication. The air was still thick with the mingling scents of expensive perfume and red wine.

I was about to sneak back to my guest room for a moment of peace when Aunt Carol grabbed me by the arm.

"Aria, dear, could you do me a favor?" she asked, her face showing a mix of fatigue and helplessness. "Alexander had too much to drink and is in his guest room. I have to take care of your uncle. Could you check on him and make sure he's okay?"

My heart sank abruptly.

"Me?" I blurted out almost instinctively, my voice filled with resistance.

"Please, sweetheart," my aunt said, patting my hand. "Just make sure he's settled in. After all, he is an elder."

Under the weight of the word “elder,” I couldn’t bring myself to refuse.

Taking a deep breath, like a prisoner marching to their execution, I slowly made my way toward the guest quarters in the eastern wing of the estate.

The thick Persian carpet in the hallway muffled all my footsteps but amplified the drumbeat of my nervous heart.

The guest room door was slightly ajar. I gently pushed it open, and a strong smell of whiskey wafted out to greet me.

Alexander Warren lay sprawled on the bed. His suit jacket had been discarded, his tie hung askew, and his

usually meticulously groomed hair was disheveled.

His eyes were tightly shut, and his breathing was heavy. He seemed completely unconscious.

In some ways, an unconscious Alexander was much safer than the sober version of him. The thought brought me a slight sense of relief. I approached the bed, intent on fulfilling my duty.

"Mr. Warren?" I called softly. "Are you alright?"

There was no response.

Hesitating, I reached out and gently patted his shoulder, trying to wake him to ensure he was more comfortably positioned.

"Mr. Warren, can you hear me?"

My strength was insufficient to move his heavy body. Just as I was about to give up, his eyes suddenly snapped open.

Those sharp, eagle like eyes, normally so piercing, were now hazy with the fog of intoxication, as though veiled with mist.

He stared at me for a few seconds, seemingly trying to recognize who I was. Then, he smiled.

It was a purely childlike smile, completely at odds with his usual demeanor.

Slowly, he raised his hand and gently pinched my cheek with his warm fingertips.

"So cute," he muttered, his voice hoarse and low.

I froze instantly. His gesture was hauntingly similar to what he had done when I was fifteen, but now, all I felt was a bone-deep unease. I instinctively stepped back, but he closed his eyes again and murmured a single word: "Water…"

It was a command. I let out a breath, relieved to have something to do that would allow me to leave quickly.

I turned around swiftly, retrieved a bottle of mineral water from the room's mini-fridge, unscrewed the cap, and brought it to his lips.

"Feed me," he slurred again, voice muddled.

I looked around but found no straw. Resigned, I carefully supported his head and tilted the bottle toward his

lips, tilting it slowly.

Just then, he suddenly rolled over. My hand jerked, and the cold mineral water spilled all over his shirt, soaking a large patch of the expensive white fabric.

The sudden chill seemed to jolt him out of his drunken stupor.

His eyes snapped open, the haze vanished, replaced by a searing fury that burned cold and unrelenting. His gaze bore into me like icy flames.

"I’m so sorry!" I stammered, terrified by his intimidating glare. "Uncle—Mr. Warren, you said you were thirsty, and I—I didn’t expect you to suddenly move."

He sat up abruptly, looking down at his soaked chest, his brows tightly knit.

The atmosphere in the room plummeted to freezing.

After a moment, he raised his head, his lips curling into an eerie, unsettling smile.

"Little girl, how am I supposed to sleep now?"

"I’ll go get one of my cousin’s shirts for you to change into," I said quickly, standing up and preparing to flee this perilous situation.

"No need," he waved dismissively before quickly pulling out his phone. In a tone of absolute

authority, he instructed his assistant to immediately deliver a fresh set of clothes.

After ending the call, he gazed at me thoughtfully and asked, "Do you know how to make tea?"

"Yes," I replied, unable to refuse.

"Make me a pot."

Though exhaustion weighed on me, I could only obey. I went down to the kitchen to brew a pot of hot tea for him.

When I returned to the bedroom with the tea tray, the sight before me made me stop in my tracks.

Alexander had taken off his soaked shirt and left it carelessly on the carpet.

His upper body was bare under the soft bedroom lighting. At over thirty, his physique was still impressively toned. Sculpted pectoral muscles and defined eight-pack abs exuded the raw power of a fully grown man.

It was my first time seeing a man's body up close. My face turned crimson instantly, and my heartbeat raced uncontrollably.

I immediately lowered my head, not daring to look again.

I handed him the tea cup, cautioning, "It’s hot."

"Mr. Warren, if there’s nothing else, I’ll head to bed now. You should get some rest too." Saying that, I turned to leave.

His eyes locked onto me with the intensity of a hawk watching its prey, but he said nothing.

At that time, I didn’t understand what his gaze meant. It was only later, as I grew older, that I realized it was desire.

The next day, the wedding took place amidst grand blessings. As a bridesmaid, I busied myself among the guests, unconsciously avoiding that dangerous figure.

On the terrace during the reception, I unexpectedly saw a familiar face—Liam Carter. He was a top student from my law school, and we’d crossed paths several times during campus events,

leaving each other with good impressions. Upright, sunny, and pure, he was like a pristine

hardcover book.

Seeing him lifted the weight that had been pressing on me all day. We chatted happily about school life until a coquettish yet cutting voice interrupted us.

"Oh, look who it is! Alexander’s latest flavor this year? How refreshingly different."

Turning, I saw a stunning woman in a fiery red dress eyeing me with disdain. She was Alexander’s second ex-wife, Isabella, a socialite from a prestigious family.

My face flushed red with embarrassment, not knowing how to respond.

Before I could react, Alexander appeared behind us. He walked calmly to Isabella’s side and, in a voice so cold it chilled my bones, said just loud enough for us to hear,

"Take that back, Isabella. Or you’ll regret being able to stand here and breathe today."

His words were soft yet carried the weight of a thousand storms, far more terrifying than any shouting.

I was left speechless by the sudden scene.

It seemed like he was defending me, but the way he did it spoke of a terrifying possessiveness and veiled aggression.

Isabella’s face turned ghostly pale. Not daring to meet Alexander’s eyes again, she turned and fled.

Alexander watched her retreat before turning his attention to me. Adjusting his cufflinks with practiced elegance, he spoke in his deep, magnetic voice,

"Don’t worry," he said, "I promise, no one will ever dare to speak to you like that again."

These words should have been comforting, but to me, they felt like an undeniable proclamation—a declaration marking me as his territory.

In that moment, whatever illusions I had built around his handsome, youthful face and perfect physique shattered completely.

I finally understood that beneath the charming surface of this man with his boyish visage and enviable body lay a volatile beast—moody, violent, and utterly terrifying.

And I was overcome with a wave of self-disgust for the momentary fluster I had felt the previous night upon seeing his body.

My fear reached its peak at that very moment.