It had been two days
1123 Words
The VIP lounge of the exclusive club was dimly lit and filled with the smell of expensive cigars and top-of-the-line whiskey.
Otthen Neor sat in the corner booth, a bottle of scotch and a half-filled glass in front of him. He was slouched slightly, his usually sharp posture softened by the alcohol he had been consuming for hours.
The sharp angles of his jaw were shadowed under the low light, but his eyes burned with a restless, simmering anger.
It had been two days. Two f*****g days since Cambrik had left, and she hadn’t returned. The silence from her end wasn’t just infuriating; it was insulting.
She thought she could outlast him? Outmaneuver him? How long could she survive without his resources? He’d cancelled her cards, shut down her access to the comforts she took for granted. Let her see how far her defiance could carry her now.
The door to the lounge opened, and his assistant, Mark, entered, his hesitant steps a contrast to the confidence he usually carried. He approached the table, his hands clasped in front of him, his gaze flickering briefly to Otthen’s empty glass before he spoke.
“Sir,” Mark began, his voice cautious, “I have an update.”
Otthen looked up, his piercing eyes narrowing. He swirled the scotch in his glass, the faint clinking of ice against crystal the only sound in the room for a moment. “Speak,” he said coldly, his tone carrying the weight of authority.
Mark swallowed and stepped closer, keeping his voice low despite the privacy of their surroundings. “Mr. Solen Hawt has taken Mrs. Neor to the main Hawt family residence.”
Otthen’s grip on the glass tightened. His jaw clenched, and he leaned forward slightly, his presence growing more intense. “The main residence?” he repeated, his voice quieter but no less dangerous. “Not his private mansion?”
“Yes, sir,” Mark confirmed, nodding. “The private mansion was only temporary, likely because it’s closer to the Neor estate. But now, he’s moved her to the Hawt family’s main residence.”
Otthen leaned back in his seat, his lips pressing into a thin line. His free hand tapped against the leather armrest, a calculated, deliberate rhythm that mirrored the storm brewing in his mind.
“And what of Genia Hawt?” he asked after a beat, his voice sharp.
“Miss Genia is currently out of the country,” Mark replied. “However, I’ve heard she’s returning soon. She resides in that mansion. It’s likely she’ll be there shortly after her arrival.”
Otthen’s expression hardened.
The Hawt family’s involvement, even tangentially, grated on his nerves. He hated the thought of Cambrik finding allies, even if they were friends of Genia’s.
This wasn’t about camaraderie or trustworthiness. This was about control. His control over the situation, especially Cambrik's restlessness. She is becoming more and more bold. How dare she!
Mark continued carefully, sensing the tension radiating from his boss. “Sir, I should also mention... Mrs. Neor’s image remains completely untarnished. There’s been no scandal, no whispers of impropriety. In fact, if anything, her reputation is intact. And—” he hesitated, “—the Neor family name is protected.”
Otthen let out a humorless laugh, the sound low and bitter. He set his glass down with a deliberate motion, the ice clinking loudly against the crystal. “Protected?” he repeated, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Protected from what, exactly? From a wife who thinks she can walk away without consequence?”
Mark stayed silent, knowing better than to interrupt.
Otthen exhaled sharply, his eyes narrowing as he stared into the middle distance. “She thinks she’s smart,” he muttered, almost to himself. “She thinks hiding in Solen’s shadow, in his family’s home, will shield her.” He leaned forward again, resting his elbows on the table, his voice dropping to a low growl. “But she doesn’t realize how little she can survive without me. She’ll crumble. And when she does, she’ll come crawling back.”
Mark cleared his throat slightly, his discomfort barely masked. “Sir, if I may—Mrs. Neor’s decision to leave appears to be rooted in personal distress. Perhaps... a softer approach might—”
Otthen’s gaze snapped to him, cutting him off with the force of his glare. “Don’t presume to tell me how to handle my wife, Mark,” he said icily. “She’s made her bed. Now she can lie in it.”
Mark nodded quickly, retreating a step, his hands clasping tighter. “Of course, sir.”
Otthen picked up his glass again, taking a slow sip, his movements deliberate as he processed the information. The burn of the scotch did little to temper his anger, but it sharpened his focus. If Cambrik wanted to play this game, he would let her.
Otthen decided that the ending would be his. She would remember how tightly she was tied to him, no matter where she tried to hide. Why is even she is showing this anger? Otthen shall bend down on his knee and ask for her mercy? Dream on! He is never going to do it. She hasn’t done anything wrong that he must do it. And even he did, he is not going to ask for forgiveness from anyone. He never did.
Otthen’s thoughts were circling, a haze of anger and humiliation clouding his mind. At that moment, the front door of the club clicked open.
He turned, blinking as Cynthia stepped into the club.
Before he could even react, she was running toward him, her arms wrapping tightly around his neck, pulling him close.
"Otthen… I couldn’t stay away from you," she whispered, her voice low, almost desperate. Her hands slid down to his shoulders, gripping him as though she were afraid he might disappear.
Otthen’s body went rigid, his mind trying to catch up. The alcohol was still thick in his system, his vision blurred, and he could barely process the words that slipped from her lips. He tried to pull back, but her grip only tightened, her face close to his, her breath warm against his cheek.
“Cynthia… listen to me.” His voice was rough, almost pleading, though he couldn’t even grasp what he wanted to say.
But she wasn’t listening. Her gaze locked on his, searching his eyes as though she could pull the answers from him without a single word. “No, Otthen. Don’t lie to yourself,” she murmured, her voice intense, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, forcing him to look at her. “Don’t hide it. I know you still love me.”
- Writer
