Tempted Trapped and Too Late to Run novel Chapter 112

The archive room at Ferguson Corporation was massive, stretching over about three thousand square feet. Clara walked in, broom in hand, ready to spend a fair bit of time cleaning. But as soon as she stepped inside, she realized the place was spotless as it was tended to daily by a dedicated crew. There wasn't a speck of dust in sight.

Feeling a bit cheeky, she grabbed a book, plopped it over her face, and settled in for a guilt-free nap. She'd been snoozing when someone gently lifted the book off her face.

Clara rubbed sleep from her eyes and looked up to find Dylan standing over her. She jolted awake, startled. Dylan glanced at the book's cover and, with his deep, magnetic voice, read out, "Living with Your Boss?"

Oh, great.

How on earth did a book like that end up here? She'd only grabbed it to block the light and never even checked the title! It was probably something left behind by the cleaning crew.

Clara's cheeks went crimson, embarrassment prickling her scalp. She rushed to explain, "That's not my book."

The archive room's door was closed, and Dylan, having stepped away from his wheelchair, was standing right beside her, basked in the warm afternoon sun.

As his elegant fingers flipped open a page, Clara felt even more flustered. From the title alone, she could guess the content was scandalous. She hastily snatched the book and tossed it aside. "Mr. Dylan, a book like that would just corrupt your eyes. Better not to read it."

Dylan, in his sharp black suit, took in her flushed face and looked away. "I asked you to clean, not nap."

"I'm really sorry." She quickly bent down in apology.

Dylan slowly settled back into his wheelchair, his demeanor calm and composed, though his tone was cool. "Come with me somewhere."

"Right now?" she asked, a bit taken aback.

"Yes."

Clara quickly moved to push his wheelchair. "Okay."

She’d heard some things about Shelly recently, and apparently, Shelly was buried at West Hill Cemetery. Rumor had it, that getting a spot there wasn’t about money but power and influence. It was the resting place for the elite.

The place was tightly guarded. Facial recognition was required for visitors wanting to pay their respects.

Her palms started to sweat. If Shelly's death was somehow linked to her, and Dylan was taking her there alone, was this finally the moment he’d avenge Shelly?

She swallowed hard, glancing up at the rearview mirror and catching his gaze.

There was no denying it, Dylan had a face that could stop you in your tracks, a testament to nature's favoritism, no matter how many times you saw it. But when anger clouded that face, it was downright terrifying.

She forced a nervous smile, trying to steady herself under the growing tension.