He Waited She Wilted (Ottilie and Yorath) novel Chapter 40

Ottilie sat in dead silence, the glass resting heavily in her hand.

The chaotic VIP room abruptly went quiet. Every man in the room stopped talking, their eyes locked greedily onto the breathtaking, untouchable beauty sitting before them.

Three years ago, none of them would have even dared to breathe the same air as her, let alone sit this close while she drank.

Even fantasizing about her would have been a death wish.

Everyone in their circle knew she was Yorath Fordham's exclusive property.

It was only now—believing he had finally grown bored and tossed her aside—that they felt entitled to feast their eyes on her.

Ottilie's palms gradually warmed the cold glass.

She finally turned to look at Shawn. "Shawn, if this is truly about paying off your debt to Mr. Tarrant... once I finish this drink, you and I are completely done. From this moment on, I have no family, and I will never provide for our parents again."

Shawn opened his mouth to argue.

But she had already thrown her head back, downing the liquor in a single, burning gulp.

Without missing a beat, she reached for the second glass, and then the third, draining them both effortlessly.

She slammed the empty glasses onto the table and stood up. "The debt is paid. Goodbye."

The entire room sat paralyzed, watching in stunned silence as she walked straight out the door.

Seconds later, Huxley finally snapped out of it, slamming his hand down on his thigh. "Don't let her leave!"

The rest of the men scrambled over each other, rushing toward the door to chase her down.

The moment Ottilie stepped out into the hallway, she crashed violently into someone's chest.

Losing her footing, she nearly collapsed, but a strong arm immediately wrapped around her waist, catching her.

Leaning against the man's chest, the distinct, intoxicating dark wood scent flooded her senses.

It was a smell that twisted her stomach into knots.

She gripped his silk shirt instinctively, murmuring, "Yorath."

Yorath held her firmly by the waist, staring down at her.

Her face was flushed a brilliant, feverish red, her eyes were hazy and wet, and her lips were a swollen, cherry pink.

Looking like *that*, in a place like *this*, with dozens of sets of eyes burning into her.

He immediately stripped off his tailored suit jacket and draped it completely over her head. "Why are you drinking?"

Years ago, Yorath had established absolute rules for her.

Never drink behind his back.

Never allow another man into her personal space.

Never wear anything that exposed below her collarbone.

The one time she broke a rule, he had nearly killed her in bed.

"Ah!" Shawn let out a blood-curdling scream, his knees buckling as he nearly collapsed to the floor in agony.

Jevon patted Shawn's shoulder almost affectionately, then turned his icy glare toward the terrified group of men. "What exactly did Ms. Sewell drink?"

Huxley swallowed hard, his voice shaking. "Fever Pitch 39.8."

It was a street name.

The absolute strongest aphrodisiac on the market.

Yorath looked down at Ottilie. She was already losing consciousness.

Even through the thick layers of his suit jacket, her skin was radiating a terrifying amount of heat.

He scooped her up effortlessly into his arms and barked at Soren, "To the hospital. Now."

Jevon remained standing in the hallway, adjusting his cuffs as he looked at the trembling crowd.

"So, gentlemen. Are we taking this to the police station to hash out the details, or are you going to sit quietly in that room and wait for Mr. Fordham to return and conduct his own investigation? Think very carefully about your answer."

Settling this privately could go either way.

Besides, there was already a scapegoat.

If they really took this to the police, an investigation might drag out a lot more of their dirty laundry.

Just like that young celebrity from two years ago.