The Best Revenge It Wasn't Even Your Child novel Chapter 598

The two women exchanged a loaded glance. Steeling themselves at the memory of Ingram's promised reward, they reached for Lance's shoulders, one from the left, one from the right.

Just as their hands were about to make contact, the door to the suite burst open. A team of bodyguards swept in, quickly separating the women from Lance with practiced precision.

“Over here—on your knees! Stay put!” barked one of the guards.

Aaron and Harrell were the last to enter. Harrell pulled out a disposable vial, systematically collecting every glass and decanter from the table to be sent out for testing.

“Lance, should I get you to the ER?” Aaron asked, anxiety etched across his face as he noticed the strange flush spreading over Lance’s cheekbones.

If they'd arrived even a second later, Lance might have been manhandled by those two sleazy women. That kind of mess would have been catastrophic.

But Lance’s mind was elsewhere. The memory of Catherine changing clothes the night before flashed across his vision—sudden, unwelcome, burning. His breathing grew ragged, and he yanked his tie loose, his usually composed voice dropping to a gravelly baritone. “Clear the scene. Don’t worry about me.”

“We still don’t know what was in those drinks,” Harrell warned, eyeing him with concern. “If that old bastard dosed you with something heavy, you might not make it through—could be dangerous.”

Lance pressed his fingers hard into his brow, forcing himself back to his senses. “Just handle it. I’ll manage,” he said shortly.

With that, he strode out of the suite.

“Harrell, take those samples straight to the lab,” Aaron said quickly. But he wasn’t about to just leave Lance unsupervised. After making sure the two women were detained, he hurried after Lance.

It wasn’t until he saw Lance tug Catherine into a private room that Aaron finally understood why Lance had put himself in harm’s way.

Inside, the air was heavy with rose-scented candle smoke. The moment Lance claimed her mouth, the fragrance invaded Catherine’s senses, dizzying her until the room seemed to flicker and fade. She drifted—back in time, it seemed, to two years earlier. That night, their first after her recovery, when Lance’s touch had been ravenous, relentless. But tonight—tonight was even more intense.

Inside, Lance gazed down at the woman in his arms. Catherine’s long hair was matted against her flushed face, all trace of resistance blurring into the vulnerable slackness of deep sleep. She didn't so much as stir when he repositioned her.

When the doors opened, Harrell was waiting—and the sight of Catherine’s marked ankle made him pause. He politely directed his gaze away, exhaling in surprise.

“Well, seeing that you’re alright, I’ll be on my way then—”

“Not so fast. You’re driving us home,” Lance cut in.

Harrell hesitated for only a beat, then fell in step, leading him out to the car.

Once they were on the move, Harrell spoke quietly: “Have you considered what you’ll say when she wakes up?” He remembered the way Catherine had resisted, pushing and twisting away before it all devolved—she’d definitely want an explanation.