Lola rushed home at full speed, took a hot shower, hastily wrung out her wet hair, and slipped into the lace nightgown. She then pulled out an ivory-white trench coat from her mother's closet and draped it over her shoulders. She had planned to put on some makeup before heading to the hotel, but when she glanced at the clock, it was already 8:20. She quickly slipped on a pair of red high heels and hurried out the door.
Like a wild, reckless little bull, she charged down the street, bumping into several pedestrians along the way. Just as they were about to curse her, they caught sight of her beautiful face and couldn't help but close their mouths. In this way, Lola made it to the hotel entrance unhindered. By now, it was 8:40.
She leaned forward, bracing her hands on her knees, and took two minutes to steady her breathing. Then, with her back straight and full of indignation, she stormed up to the reception desk and held out two sets of keys. "How do you even run this place? You can't even get the room keys right!"
The receptionist was startled. Most guests at a five-star hotel were either rich or important, and they were always well-mannered. Even when angry, they wouldn't shout like Lola just did. The receptionist quickly stood up and gestured for Lola to sit down. "Miss, please don't be upset. Take your time explaining, and we'll help you solve the problem."
Lola pretended to look displeased. "My uncle gave me two sets of keys to help him find something, but only one of the room doors opened. You've definitely given me the wrong keys."
The receptionist patiently asked, "Could I see both sets of keys? I'll check the records and see if it's indeed your uncle."
Lola seemed to calm down a little and nodded. She quickly waved the set of keys that worked in front of the receptionist. "This is the one that opened the door." Then she handed over the set Noah had given her. "And this is the one that didn't."
The receptionist looked at the other set of keys in her hand, just about to speak.
At that moment, Lola suddenly stood up, fanning herself with her hands, her cheeks puffing out in annoyance. "I've been waiting here so long, and no one's even offered me water! I'm dying of thirst!" Although this girl was stunningly beautiful, her demeanor was anything but refined.
The receptionist immediately gave up on asking for the other set of keys and hurriedly flipped through the massive registration book, eager to quickly get rid of this volatile troublemaker.
"What's your uncle's name?"
"Villiers."
The receptionist frowned in confusion. "But this set of keys is registered to Mr. Villiers."
"That's impossible!" Lola snapped. "Check again."
"It really is Mr. Villiers." The receptionist hesitated. "Miss, are you sure you're using the right method to open the door?"
Hearing this, Lola stood up again, hands on her hips, and raised her voice. "I've been to this hotel many times. Do you think I don't know how to open a door?"
Even though this was the receptionist's first time seeing Lola, she didn't doubt Lola's words—after all, for a girl as beautiful as her, getting a room at a five-star hotel would be effortless. She had no need to lie about this.
The receptionist could only lower her head and continue checking the logbook. Finally, on the next page, she found another "Villiers." Normally, she should have called to verify Lola's identity, but she was too afraid that Lola would start shouting again. Hurriedly, she retrieved a spare key and handed it to Lola with both hands. "I'm terribly sorry. It must have been my colleague who gave you the wrong key. I sincerely apologize."
At the same time, the hands of the lobby clock were nearing 9. Lola's palms were slick with anxious, hot sweat, but her tone remained composed. "It's fine. Just don't make this mistake again."
"I'm really sorry. Should I have a colleague escort you to the room?"
"No need," Lola took the key and memorized the room number on it. "I know the way, and I know how to open the door."
The receptionist clasped her hands together and gave her an apologetic smile.
There were still ten minutes until 9:00. Clutching the key tightly, Lola didn't even bother with the elevator and headed straight for the stairs. There were thirty steps per floor, and holding her breath, she took two steps at a time. In less than a minute, she was standing in front of Mr. L's room.
Her heart was pounding so hard it felt like it would jump out of her throat, and her back was drenched in sticky sweat. She leaned her head against the door, took a deep breath, and inserted the key into the lock. With a soft "click," the door opened. The room was pitch dark, and no one was inside.
She stepped in without turning on the light. From the moment she entered the room, her mind had been in a whirl. Exhaling deeply, Lola kicked off her high heels, shrugged off her trench coat, and, wearing only the lace nightgown, walked towards the bedroom.
Her heartbeat was so intense that her eardrums buzzed. She lowered her head, clenched her fists, and swallowed nervously. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the dim streetlights cast a yellowish glow on the wooden floor, reflecting her trembling shadow.
She took a deep breath and dove under the covers. The silk sheets were cold against her skin, but they felt as if they were burning her.
Why did she feel this way? The answer was simple—this way of getting Mr. L was not only humiliating to him but also to the feelings she had for him.
But what other way was there to approach him, to get him? Just like cattle must be sacrificed to reach the gods, she had no other choice.
Mr. L was her god.
She didn't know how long had passed—maybe just ten minutes—but as she tossed and turned in unbearable agony, she heard the sound of a key sliding into the lock, followed by a soft "click." Mr. L had returned.
Villiers stepped into the room and unexpectedly stepped on a pair of high heels lying on the floor. He narrowed his eyes and turned on the suite's wall light. It was a pair of cheap red heels, the patent leather already cracking at the toes, and the soles were filthy. It was clear these shoes didn't belong to a proper lady—a proper lady's shoes were always pristine because they never wore old shoes, nor did they rely on their shoes to rush around.
A woman had snuck into his suite.
It wasn't an uncommon occurrence. As a single billionaire, even at his age, countless women approached him every year. They were deeply infatuated with his wealth, trying to marry the name "Villiers," not the man himself.
Without another glance at the red heels, Villiers walked into the living room and took a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer from the fridge. People who didn't know him always assumed that a British gentleman like him would dine on filet mignon and Burgundy wine at every meal. But at his age, he preferred trying new things rather than sticking to tradition.
After taking a sip of the cold beer, Villiers picked up the rotary phone and called his personal assistant. "Come over and take someone away."
After hanging up, he sat on the sofa for a while, then put down his beer and headed to the bedroom.
He had always handled these encounters with cold ruthlessness. This time, he planned to do the same—march over, yank off the covers, and coldly order the woman in bed to get dressed and leave. But when his gaze met her deep, inky-black eyes filled with a hint of panic, his expression changed to one of surprise.
"Why is it you?"