Chapter 12
A pause. Then a smirk. “You’re the first. And tonight–I’m going to teach you exactly what happens to girls like you.”
Before Mona could react, the man scooped her up with one arm and slammed her down onto the couch.
She could fight back–grab a bottle off the table and smash it over his head if she wanted.
But if she did, she wouldn’t just lose tonight’s pay. She’d have to cover damages, and probably more than she could afford.
Worse, it would definitely get back to the Morse family. And when they showed up, who knew how they’d twist it to shame her again?
With no other option, she turned her gaze upward–to the man seated at the top of the room, who had been silently watching everything unfold.
“Mr. Haley.” she said, her voice strained. “Please. help me.”
Just as the man’s hand reached to hike up her skirt, Waylon finally spoke.
“Mr. Hardin,” he said, voice cool and measured, “she’s not worth the
trouble.”
Tanner Hardin had come to the capital to negotiate drone technology with Waylon.
His operation overseas in Ashisvine lacked the industrial backbone to produce high–end tech. His mercenary group needed modern equipment, and Waylon controlled nearly 80% of the domestic drone market.
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Not someone he could afford to offend.
With a grunt, Tanner let go.
Mona scrambled off the couch like her life depended on it.
Waylon’s voice rang out again. “What are you waiting for? Apologize to Mr. Hardin.”
Without hesitation, Mona slapped herself across the face. Then she bowed, poured him a fresh drink, and held it out with both hands.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Hardin.”
Tanner took the glass and downed it in one shot. “You’re lucky Mr. Haley is here. Otherwise, tonight would’ve gone very differently.”
But in truth, that slap had only made her more intriguing to him. He liked fire. He liked bite.
And Mona–beautiful, sharp–eyed, that fearless attitude–she hit every mark.
He didn’t know what her relationship to Waylon was, but if they were truly involved, there was no way Waylon would let her be paraded around serving drinks in a place like this.
‘Fine. I’ll give Waylon face tonight. But once the business is done? I’ll have her sent to me–and then I can take my time doing whatever I please,‘ he thought.
Mona stood up and gave a deep bow. “Thank you, sir.”
Then she stepped back, returning quietly to the row of hostesses by the wall, doing her best to become invisible.
She wasn’t sure if it was the fear, the thick cloud of smoke and alcohol in
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the room, or the pain in her back, but her head was spinning. The ache was spreading again.
Her legs wobbled. Her vision dimmed. And then, everything went black.
When Mona came to, the faint scent of disinfectant hit her nose.
She opened her eyes to find an IV bag hanging from a metal stand above, her. Turning her head, she saw Waylon sitting beside the hospital bed.
He was relaxed, legs crossed, long fingers flying across the keyboard of a sleek laptop.
The room was dark–no overhead lights, only the pale blue glow from the screen illuminating his face.
The soft light carved his features into something unreal–chiseled, refined, stunning in a way that made your breath catch.
“You’re awake,” he said, snapping the laptop shut.
The light disappeared, leaving only the faint shimmer of moonlight filtering in through the window, blurring the room into gentle shadows.
He stood and walked over to her bedside.
“High fever, open wounds, and you still went to work?” he said, his tone calm but pointed. “Ms. Morse, are you really that desperate for money?”
Mona tried to sit up, but her entire body ached. Her back throbbed, her head spun, and with the IV still in her arm, she had no choice but to sink back onto the bed.
Without a word, Waylon stepped forward, gently lifting her and helping her lean against the headboard.
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“Thank you for bringing me here, Mr. Haley,” she said quietly. “I really do need the money. Sorry you had to see me like that.”
Her fever–flushed cheeks were a rosy pink against the stark white sheets. She looked fragile and luminous–like a rose blooming in the snow.
Waylon studied her for a long moment, then said with a faint smile, “I prefer more. tangible forms of gratitude, Ms. Morse. No need to be shy.
He sat down by the bed, his gaze drifting–unapologetically–to her chest. “You know what I want.”
Mona’s cheeks turned crimson in an instant.
The last time something like this happened, she’d been drugged–her body completely overpowered by desire.
But now, fully conscious and hearing such a bold request, she felt like her entire body was on fire.
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