Chapter 297 Recorded Ordeal
The video opened in a dim hotel room, its angle crooked.
Judging by the camera angle, Weston must have propped his phone on the nightstand before tapping record, as though he wanted a silent witness to whatever storm was about to unfold.
On–screen, the woman clawed at Weston’s shirt with drunken resolve, her fingers drifting from the edge of his jawline down into the open collar, skimming over pectorals before tracing the ridges of his abdomen like a worshipper counting beads.
Between ragged breaths, she muttered, “Mmm, you look just like Weston Windore–this face, these pecs, these abs… I’ll pay you, darling, if you’ll let me have my way just once and help me spit out this bitter anger.”
“Bitter anger?” Weston asked from beneath her weight, his voice a low, bemused rumble.
“Y–Yeah!” she slurred between hiccups, words tumbling out like marbles on a floor. “Back then, he said I was only a way to kill time. Ha! That heartless scoundrel played me, so I need to play him once in return. But… he’s too strong, damn it. I can’t manage it. So help a lady out, handsome. Let me have my turn and grant me this tiny wish, will you?”
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“Do you really want to have your way with Weston that badly?” he asked, still pinned beneath her yet sounding almost amused.
“Want? I dream about it,” she muttered. She yanked off his tie in one reckless motion and looped the silk around his wrists, knotting it with surprising precision.
The video cut off there.
Even Laura, who prided herself on skin thick enough to weather a hurricane of gossip, felt heat flood her cheeks. Drinking always breeds disaster. Well, congratulations, Laura Wentworth–you’ve brewed yourself a perfect
storm.
That same evening, she met Weston face–to–face, choosing a secluded private room in an upscale
restaurant.
Inside the restaurant’s secluded private suite, Laura stretched a brittle smile across her lips. “How about I treat you to dinner tonight, Mr. Windore, as a gesture of apology?” she asked, her voice sugar–coated unmistakably tense.
Weston did not bother to lift his gaze from the water glass he idly cradled. “So you’ve watched the footage, have you? Finally realized you were in the wrong?” His tone was almost gentle, but every syllable fell with the weight of a verdict.
Laura answered with two thin, awkward chuckles. Whatever he wants to call it, I did do those things–and he caught everything in video.
She straightened abruptly, desperate to steer the conversation onto safer ground. “Come on, let’s order. Whatever you feel like eating, just say the word.”
Without the faintest hint of restraint, Weston picked up the menu and began selecting dishes–the more extravagant, the more emphatically he tapped the page–just enough to make Laura’s wallet twitch in
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Chapter 297 Recorded Ordeal
silent agony.
Moments later, the servers filed in, balancing platter after steaming platter.
Laura nibbled absently, mind racing for a way to negotiate the previous night’s fiasco. After tying his hands, had I done anything else? I had woken fully dressed, hadn’t I?
Lost in thought, she found her gaze drifting to Weston.
Every time she watched him eat, she marveled anew. If the phrase refined gentleman had a living portrait, it would be Weston–ascetic features arranged in quiet composure, each movement of fork and knife precise enough to be art.
Grace clung to him the way candlelight clings to crystal, a natural elegance born of generations that moved through the world without hurry. Standing beside him, she felt as though they inhabited parallel galaxies separated by polished glass.
Face it, Laura. You’re a lucky upstart–one good wave in the market, and suddenly you’re ‘Ms. Wentworth.‘ Strip the numbers from your bank app, and you’re just another anonymous employee tugging a badge at some cubicle farm. Even now, with success under your belt, you still can’t hold a candle to him—and everyone in the room knows it.
The watch on Weston’s wrist could have bought a penthouse. Laura knew she had a comfortable bank account, yet nothing in her portfolio could stretch to a watch that expensive.
Then, her gaze narrowed. Beneath the watch, she spotted angry red lines, half–hidden but unmistakable, circling the skin like faint ropes. The pattern prickled her memory with an unsettling, almost intimate familiarity.
Wait–ropes? Could those marks be from the necktie I used to bind him last night?
“Why are you staring? Do you fancy the watch?” Weston’s voice slipped into the quiet like ice in water.
“Your watch is the last thing on my mind. I’m looking at the red marks on your wrist,” Laura said, embarrassment rising even as the words escaped.
Weston replied, unbuckling the exorbitant watch. “Then take a proper look,” he murmured, rolling both sleeves to his elbows with deliberate, unhurried precision.
The twin wrists lay bare, each circled by vivid red impressions. Guilt flickered through Laura’s chest the way lightning skitters across a summer sky. Perhaps I tied the knot a little too tight last night.
“Um… I’m sorry about that,” she managed, then hurried on, “but why didn’t you fight back?”
A flash of last night’s video surfaced him beneath her, camera propped at the perfect angle–yet she distinctly recalled no struggle.
“I was drunk,” Weston answered softly. “Couldn’t manage any resistance.”
Liar. You had enough clarity to put your phone at that angle and film the whole thing, didn’t you? Laura bit back the words, filing them behind a tight smile.
“So… after the recording stopped, did I do anything else to you?”
“Plenty,” he said. “You kissed and explored every inch of me, then took a belt to my back like some
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Chapter 297 Recorded Ordeal
renegade dominatrix.”
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