He Lost Me to His Best Friend novel Chapter 788

"Don't worry, Kane. Consider it done. Just pull the trigger on your end! The sooner you ruin Scarlett, the happier Sylvia will be!"

—

Yardley sat rigidly in the back of the Rolls-Royce. Flanked by massive men in black suits, a heavy, suffocating sense of dread began to crawl up his throat.

This didn't feel like an escort to a VIP business meeting. It felt like he was being transported to a black site.

Thirty minutes bled by.

Yardley stared out the tinted windows at the unfamiliar, desolate streets. His anxiety spiked, and he finally broke the silence.

"Excuse me, what's your name?"

"My name is Henry. Just Henry is fine, sir."

Yardley frowned. "Henry, where exactly are we going? How much longer until we see Mr. Bishop?"

Henry replied with practiced politeness, "We're heading to Mr. Bishop's private estate. We'll be there in about twenty minutes."

Yardley exhaled, his racing heart settling slightly.

He went back to staring out the window. But as the minutes ticked by, the cityscape vanished entirely, replaced by dark, winding mountain roads. The sky outside turned pitch black.

Every second felt like an eternity. Yardley found himself silently counting down the minutes in his head.

Exactly twenty minutes later, a massive, palatial fortress emerged from the shadows at the base of the mountain, illuminated by cold floodlights.

The heavy iron gates swung open, and the Rolls-Royce glided inside.

Henry stepped out and opened the door, gesturing respectfully for Yardley to exit.

Yardley followed him through a grand set of revolving doors into a cavernous, extravagantly decorated lobby that looked like the interior of a European palace.

They walked down a seemingly endless, silent corridor.

Finally, Henry ushered him into a massive, cavernous room.

The room was a masterpiece of architecture, the walls covered in intricate stone reliefs.

But it was completely empty.

No chairs. No tables. No art. Not a single piece of furniture. And absolutely no one else.

What did Bishop want from him?

Why was he doing this?

The questions spiraled in his mind, the silence of the room amplifying his terror until it felt like the walls were closing in on him.

An hour passed.

Then two.

Then three.

Yardley remained standing, terrified to sit on the floor in case the elusive billionaire walked in and deemed him unprofessional. But his legs were screaming in agony, his knees beginning to buckle from the strain.

He stood there, trapped in a waking nightmare, for nearly five agonizing hours.

His calves were burning, his heels entirely numb, shooting sharp, blinding pain up his spine.

Finally... the heavy click of the deadbolt echoed through the room.