Shadows of Vengeance and Love

Chapter 2

“Mm-hmm.”

The man’s soft laugh lingered in her ears, and Zoe froze for a moment before turning her head.

In a fluid, deft motion, he fastened the necklace around her neck in a single second. Then, retrieving the phone that was tucked against his shoulder, he strode over to the window.

When Zoe glanced back, all she saw was his tall, broad back. His black trench coat draped over his shoulders, obscuring his lowered head. His laugh rang clear and hearty as he teased in a tone so light it was almost imperceptible: “… Ha… do you want to hear the truth or a lie?”

What is up with this guy?

Annoyed, Zoe furrowed her brows and scanned his back, waiting for him to turn around and glare at her. But he neither turned nor moved far—he simply stood sideways by the window.

Few words were exchanged; most of the conversation came from the other end of his phone, a voice that was bright and gentle enough to suggest she was a woman.

Zoe waited, her expression tightening, as his call dragged on. Gradually, she found that glaring at his back was both tedious and pointless. She recalled how he had just helped her with her necklace—aside from that initial, unavoidable brush of his hand against hers and a fleeting touch on her neck, his actions had been impeccably proper. He even took care to adjust the necklace just enough to create a respectful distance.

“Guess I got nibbled by a pig,” she mused with a wry pout, and then turned to enter Room 107.

Ethan Hale finished his call and glanced back at the dead-end across the hall. Realizing he’d taken the wrong direction, he retraced his steps to the stairwell and deftly slipped on his trench coat.

As he descended the stairs, his trained instincts detected something amiss. His steps faltered; he quickly sidestepped and tensed, listening intently.

The service door in the stairwell hadn’t been properly secured. Two waitstaff were whispering. One, with a suggestive tone, said, “Did you see that woman just now? The one in the white dress with the black bag.”

“Yeah, I saw her. D*mn, she’s gorgeous,” the other replied in a lecherous tone.

The first coolly stated, “Zoe Nolan.”

At that, the second’s tone shifted immediately to one of fear: “Her? "Shane’s girl?” (Here, ‘girl’ means his girlfriend.)

“That’s her,” came the reply.

Ethan pursed his lips.

Shane—his archenemy. Nine years ago, Shane was the prime suspect in the murder of Ethan’s fiancée, Xia, though the case eventually went cold.

In the ensuing silence, the second speaker, clearly terrified, accidentally knocked over a cup and wailed, “If I had known she was Shane’s, I wouldn’t have dared do this for your sake! Your lot are trying to pit Ethan against Shane—don’t lay a hand on a woman! Now I’ve given her that drugged water; if anything happens, I won’t even know how she died.”

“Ethan’s kept a tight watch on Shane these past years, so he’s reined himself in a bit. "Do you really think he can still kill as casually as he used to, like picking up ants?”

“But that’s Shane!” the other cried, nearly in tears. He even dared kill Ethan’s fiancée, slicing her into pieces and getting away with it. I’m terrified—if he targets her, there won’t be a single bone left.”

Ethan leaned against the wall, his gaze momentarily empty. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a cigarette. Just as he was about to bring it to his lips, he squinted.

There, on the cigarette tip, was a speck of dampness—about the size of a grain of dust. Ha, so he, too, had been drugged? If not for his sharp eyes, he might not have noticed.

Earlier during the card game, his overcoat had been draped on the back of a chair, out of his line of sight.

He idly twirled the cigarette between his fingers for a moment before a slight smile crossed his face. Rising from the wall, he headed down the corridor. At the spot where he’d been standing, across the dead-end, there was only one room.

Zoe closed the door of the room—a space that appeared to have no windows, leaving it shrouded in darkness. She blinked several times, trying to allow her pupils to adjust, but despite her efforts, she could barely make out the outlines of the table and chairs. Without turning on any lights, she recalled the room’s layout and groped her way like a blind person toward the innermost corner, eventually pushing open a door.

Inside the bathroom, a small window offered a meager sliver of light through the overcast gloom.

She removed her coat and tossed it onto the sofa, then donned her shoe covers and squatted down. A sharp creak echoed from her bones, but she paid it no mind. Swiftly, she opened her black bag, methodically put on her gloves and specialized glasses, and then drew the blinds down, plunging the bathroom back into darkness.

For several seconds, her mind went blank as she stood there. Clenching her teeth, she began pounding her calf with force.

It was winter again—another endless, drizzly winter.

Her hereditary rheumatism seemed to worsen with each foray into the icy wind and cold rain; not a single bone in her body escaped the pain.

Although this task wasn’t officially hers, she’d just started on the job and had nothing pressing at hand. Moreover, Kayla Quinn had urgently called in a personal favor. Fortunately, her familiarity with the place meant she wasn’t thrown off balance.

She retrieved her detection device and began a slow, methodical scan, meticulously covering every nook and cranny.

The club’s newly renovated bathroom showed little sign of disturbance. After a thorough sweep, the only traces in the dim light were a set of footprints beside the sink and a few fingerprints on the counter, both emitting cold, pale glow—remnants that Kayla Quinn had previously collected.

Scanning once more, she discovered a tiny, almost white fleck wedged in a gap in the carpet—a scrap of paper no larger than a pinhole.

Zoe snapped a photo and then carefully plucked it up with tweezers, examining it closely. It resembled a fragment of foil, flashing silver in the dark with ink-like marks that rendered its origin unclear.

She sealed the suspected scrap into an evidence bag and then noticed that the carpet had been shifted. Tugging at it, she discovered, on the floor beneath, half a fresh fingerprint.

Taking a brush, she dipped it into magnetic powder and meticulously swept back and forth. Once she was satisfied with her collection and found nothing further, she gathered her tools and massaged her aching knees.

As she stepped out of the bathroom, she heard a door close—a sound neither too heavy nor too light—followed by a dull thud as it locked.

Zoe froze. Had someone just entered? She listened intently in the silence of the dark room, but heard nothing else. Then a small flash of red light caught her eye—a brief glimmer of smoke?

Was someone smoking?

A sudden, ominous premonition gripped her.

Earlier, as she was heading upstairs, a waiter had handed her a cup of water. The moment it reached her lips, she’d sensed something off—she realized it had been laced with drugs. For someone versed in toxicology like her, it would normally be a minor nuisance.

This establishment was run by one of Shane’s underlings, all well-acquainted with the game. She had dismissed it as a manager’s joke. Now, however, it seemed anything but.

Shane controlled half of the Wallace Group’s empire. In both professional and personal spheres, he had amassed many enemies eager to see him fall. Yet, despite his steely exterior, he had one vulnerable spot—her.

Zoe’s anxiety spiked. She worked in the technical lab and wasn’t trained in combat; her physical training had been incomplete due to her fragile health.

Before long, the intruder’s cigarette burned out, and the room was once again cloaked in darkness.

Struggling to steady herself, she hoped to slowly play a game of hide-and-seek with whoever had entered, using the chance to edge toward the door. If she was unfortunate enough to run into him, she could at least cry out for help. Bending down, she set her box on the floor so it wouldn’t be damaged—someone would come for it later.

Just then, her knee buckled with a sharp, crisp c***k.

D*mn it! That had given away her position.

In the oppressive silence, she heard heavy, measured footsteps approaching. Each step echoed ominously in the dark room.

Fear surged in her as she tried to discern his direction, planning a hasty detour to the door. In her panic, she took a few hurried steps only to realize that the sound’s origin was different from what she had assumed—the darkness was impenetrable, and she couldn’t tell where it was coming from.

As she fretted, the man suddenly fell silent.

Clearly, he was more experienced than she was—using his footfalls to intimidate her into revealing her location. Once he’d pinpointed where she was, he reduced his noise and crept closer.

She couldn’t tell whether he had truly tracked her or was simply playing psychological games. In the pitch-black hallway, unable to see or hear properly, she stood paralyzed, sweat beading on her brow—unable to move forward or retreat.

Amidst this mental standoff, the air before her grew thick, carrying a faint hint of tobacco. He was drawing near!

She pressed her lips tightly together, holding her breath, wondering if her senses were deceiving her. But then, the oppressive presence abruptly closed in, and the man grasped her shoulder.

Zoe’s heart skipped a beat. In a flash, she remembered a self-defense technique Mr. Lin had once taught her—a maneuver for extricating oneself from a hold. With determination, she clutched his wrist with both hands and twisted it outward while simultaneously lowering her center of gravity and pulling. Sure enough, he faltered and toppled to the ground.

For a moment, a surge of hope lit within her—but as the man’s warm breath brushed her cheek in his fall, he let out a soft, almost mocking laugh, as if dismissing her feeble attempt.

Zoe cursed inwardly; she had hoped to dash away the moment he fell. Yet, before she could move, his hand caught her waist, throwing off her balance entirely. He dragged her down along with him, and in a desperate tumble, she landed squarely on top of his body.

She couldn’t arrest her momentum—her lips collided with the side of his neck. His skin was soft and warm, imbued with a heady, rich tobacco scent. Stunned, she could only register his half-amused “Heh,” a sound devoid of pleasure yet thick with scorn.

Overwhelmed with a mixture of humiliation and anger, she let out a shrill cry and sprang up. Before her scream had fully formed, he was already on his feet, pinching her cheeks and forcefully pinning her against the sofa.

In an instant, Zoe was overpowered.

He clamped his hand around her jaw so tightly she couldn’t cry out or even move her head; her back was forced against him, her wrists twisted and bound behind her, while his knee held her legs down firmly.

He showed no mercy, applying just enough pressure that made her whimper in pain while her body, trying to minimize further harm, lay helplessly on the sofa.

In his presence, any attempt at resistance was futile—she was utterly defenseless, at his mercy.

Zoe trembled, a potent mix of shame, anger, and terror coursing through her.

She suffered from an acute aversion to physical contact with men. Even with Shane, over the years, she had only recently allowed a simple handhold. But now…

Did he revel in this position?

Tears welled in her eyes as an overwhelming urge to cry seized her. What had she done to invite this?