CEO’s Regret After I Divorced (Serena and Ryan) novel Chapter 349

Chapter 349: Chapter 349 Hidden Trap

Serena’s POV

I slipped into the underground bar, my eyes struggling to adjust to the perpetual twilight. The music, a relentless, primal beat, pounded against my eardrums like a physical assault. This place was reputed to be the most fluid hub of information, but the deafening din and the greasy stares that clung to me made me question the wisdom of my decision.

But I’d come this far. Turning back now would just mean another sleepless night, haunted by unanswered questions.

"Well hello, beautiful. Drinking alone tonight?" The bartender’s gaze traveled slowly, explicitly, up and down my body, lingering a little too long.

Ignoring his leering gaze, I pulled out my business card and placed it flat on the grimy bar counter.

"I need to speak with your boss," I said firmly, my voice cutting through the bass.

The bartender’s expression shifted, almost imperceptibly, the moment his eyes landed on the card. His smarmy smile vanished, replaced by a flicker of wary respect.

"Ms. Serena? Follow me upstairs, please."

I nodded, a curt gesture, and trailed behind him up a narrow, dimly lit staircase. The second floor was blessedly quieter, the music below now just a muted, bass thrum. He led me to a private room that, to my surprise, was starkly clean compared to the grime downstairs.

"Wait here. The manager will be with you shortly," he said, turning to leave.

"I asked to see your boss, not a manager," I called after him, my voice sharp, my brow furrowed. This was certainly not the arrangement I’d secured through my contact.

He paused at the doorway. "Look, Ms. Serena, I understand your frustration, but the boss doesn’t meet with clients directly. Hell, even I’ve never seen him." He offered a wary, apologetic smile. "But I promise you this: whatever information you’re looking for, you’ll get it. We deliver. Guaranteed."

Before I could argue further, he slipped out, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

Five minutes later—minutes that stretched into an eternity of growing paranoia—the door opened again. A middle-aged man in unremarkable casual clothes walked in, carrying a sleek tablet.

"Mrs. Lancaster," he greeted me, using my husband, Cedric Lancaster’s, surname. "Apologies for the wait. The boss informed me you’re seeking information. How can we help you?"

I didn’t waste time with pleasantries. "I need information about Ryan Blackwood," I stated. "Specifically, his relationship with Serena Blackwood."

The man’s eyes widened slightly, then he let out a short, incredulous chuckle. "Mrs. Lancaster, surely you’re joking? Do you understand who Mr. Blackwood is? The kind of power he wields, the reach he commands? And you want us to investigate him?"

I kept my expression neutral, my resolve unwavering. "I’m not interested in his business affairs. I want to know about his personal life—his relationship with his wife, his private matters, the things he keeps hidden."

I leaned forward slightly, my voice dropping, imbued with a steely resolve. "And I don’t want the sanitized, public relations-approved version. I can find that myself. I came here because you supposedly have access to information others don’t. Cost is not a concern. I just need the truth."

The man’s amusement faded entirely, replaced by undeniable anxiety. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

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