It was a spacious double room, easily large enough for two adults to share the bed.
Jonathan frowned as he knelt to help Marina off with her shoes and jacket. He paused at her inner layers—those, he left untouched. Straightening, he turned to leave.
But before he could take a step, a pair of arms wrapped tightly around his waist. He didn’t need to look to know it was Marina.
“Marina…” he began, but his words faltered as he felt her fingers at his belt.
“Jonathan… Jonathan, I’m so hot… I— I feel awful…” Her voice trembled, thick with desperation.
Jonathan turned. Marina was kneeling on the bed, her face flushed, eyes glazed, lips parted and gasping for breath, her hands restlessly tugging at her own clothes.
He stared at her, realization dawning. His hand moved for his phone—he needed to call Prescott, get a doctor, do something. But then, a strange sensation swept over him. His body felt… off.
Every glass of whiskey on the tower tonight—Marina had laced every single one.
Not only had Jonathan drunk; Marina had too.
She’d counted on Jonathan not leaving her alone, certain he’d drink with her. This way, they’d both be affected, and he’d be less likely to suspect her. Besides, she’d arranged for Preston Winslow and Zachary to join them too.
Zachary, notorious for his wild behavior, could easily have slipped something extra into her drink without meaning to—something more dangerous, more unpredictable.
But the pills Edna had given Marina were specially mixed, slow-acting, timed perfectly for this hotel room rendezvous.
Now, everything was unfolding just as Marina had planned.
Her cheeks burning, she threw herself into Jonathan’s arms. Her whole body was feverish—she couldn’t wait any longer.
Tonight, she was sure Jonathan would sleep with her.
And if everything went as hoped… maybe she’d even get pregnant.
Marina’s mind grew hazier by the second. She clung to this one, fevered thought:
She was going to become Jonathan’s woman.
---
The city slept under a heavy silence.
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