He Waited She Wilted (Ottilie and Yorath) novel Chapter 50

For the next several days, Yorath was swamped with work. Ottilie only caught glimpses of him across the sprawling dining table late at night.

His relentless schedule lasted right up until the day of Nyssa's birthday.

Yorath had rented a colossal luxury yacht capable of holding ten thousand guests.

Half the attendees were Nyssa's obsessed fans, while the rest seemed to be the entire A-list hierarchy of the entertainment industry.

His gift to the birthday girl was a custom-ordered Lamborghini.

That, combined with the grotesque mountain of extravagant presents from fans and wealthy heirs, took up an entire ballroom on the lower deck.

Ottilie's entire monthly salary wouldn't even cover the cost of a single floral arrangement at this event.

The sheer decadence and deafening noise were overwhelming.

She had absolutely zero interest in playing a part in this chaotic circus of fake smiles and celebrity worship.

While Yorath was up on the main stage participating in some orchestrated interaction with Nyssa, Ottilie quietly slipped away from the main deck.

She had downed a few glasses of champagne, and the rocking of the yacht made her steps slightly unsteady.

Wandering aimlessly down the plush corridors, she completely lost her bearings.

Spotting a set of heavy mahogany doors, she pushed them open, desperate for a quiet corner.

Inside, the atmosphere was dramatically different. It was a lavish, dimly lit billiards room.

A group of incredibly attractive, obscenely wealthy socialites were gathered around a custom pool table.

The moment she stepped inside, all conversation died. Every pair of eyes locked onto her.

"My apologies. I took a wrong turn," she said smoothly, offering a polite nod before turning to leave.

"Hold on a second, Ms. Sewell," a voice called out.

Ottilie turned back to see a stunning young woman holding a crystal tumbler, swaying seductively toward her.

"Can I help you?"

"We're playing a game," the girl purred. "House rules: anyone who walks through those doors has to challenge our reigning champion to a game of pool. If you win, he'll grant you any single favor you ask. If you lose... you have to strip completely naked before you're allowed to leave."

The girl gestured theatrically behind her.

Ottilie's gaze followed the motion, landing on the man standing at the absolute center of the elite crowd.

He was impeccably dressed in a sharp tailored suit that accentuated his broad shoulders, narrow waist, and impossibly long legs.

He was undeniably gorgeous, radiating the effortless, dangerous charm of a true aristocrat.

It was a rare kind of magnetism.

And she knew exactly who he was.

Yorath's ultimate rival: Lachlan Schmidt.

He practically owned the other half of the entertainment industry.

"Lower your waist. Arch your back. Move your grip right... here."

He mirrored her stance flawlessly, hovering over her like a shadow.

Even without physical contact, the sheer, suffocating dominance of his posture sent a thrill of genuine danger racing down her spine.

Her fingers trembled slightly on the wood. He reached down and firmly covered her hand with his own.

"Don't be nervous, Ms. Sewell. You're doing perfectly. Just draw it back slowly... and strike."

Crack.

The cue struck the eight-ball with lethal precision. It shot across the green felt, banked sharply off the far rail, and dropped perfectly into the corner pocket.

"It went in," Lachlan murmured against the shell of her ear.

She knew damn well that shot required the skill of a seasoned professional.

"Incredible technique, Mr. Schmidt."

"Oh, my technique is exceptional in a lot of other areas too," he whispered, his voice dark, husky, and entirely inappropriate. "Care to try me out, Ms. Sewell?"

She turned her head, fixing him with a cool, deadpan stare. "The game is over, Mr. Schmidt."

"Is it? My apologies. I hadn't noticed." He finally stepped back, giving her room to breathe.

Ottilie slipped her leg off the table, straightened her dress, and casually handed him the cue stick. "Your turn, Mr. Schmidt."