?Chapter 1297:


    If she was just a hostess, that meant she was no different from the other women in the room.


    She had no ce to resist. No right to keep anything to herself.


    William flicked his gaze across the men, voice still cool. “If you’re interested, don’t hold back. She’s good at this. When she was with Marc, she drank plenty for him. Her tolerance is impressive.”


    Each word sank her further into the icy pit opening inside her. She could feel it swallowing heat, breath, thought.


    The women draped along the sofas stared her down with thin, triumphant smirks. In their eyes, Ste ranked even lower than they did.


    Steven’s grip tightened on his ss, knuckles turning white.


    When he looked at Ste’s face—pale, hollowed out, trembling—something inside him seemed to crack.


    He knew William was hurting. He knew the man wanted revenge. But this? Dragging her here. Crushing her in front of a room full of vultures. Acting like she was nothing special, nothing different from the women being paid to sit here?


    It was too much.


    And the worst part was, William knew exactly who Ste was. Her pride, her restraint, the way she held herself back—that was what had drawn him in back then.


    Now he wanted to strip all of that away. As if breaking her would rewrite the past.


    Steven opened his mouth to intervene, but the look William shot him was a de. A warning.


    One wrong word would only make things worse for her. So Steven forced himself to look away, swallowing the ache in his chest.


    Ste stood there, barely breathing. The room felt like it was spinning, voices blurring into a storm ofughter, heavy breathing, and muffled music. Everything pressed down on her.


    gα?ησν????s??оm, where stories thrive


    She felt ridiculous. Exposed. A performer shoved into the spotlight with no role except to be mocked.


    So this was it. In William’s eyes, she really was nothing. Something disposable.


    Her mind scrambled, trying to understand what she’d done.


    What mistake she’d made that justified this level of cruelty.


    But her memories were still a fractured mess.


    Those fragmented memories that asionally haunted her had long ceased to trouble her.


    And the longer she stood there, the more the attention slithered over her skin like leeches. Her stomach churned.


    She clenched the empty ss in her hand, grounding herself with the sting in her palm.


    But the men in the room had no ns to let her slip out of the moment.


    The bald man—who hadn’t taken his eyes off her since she walked in—leaned forward with a gleam of triumph. “Ms. Russell,” he called, gesturing her closer. “I’ve heard your name plenty. Won’t you join me for a drink?”


    He shoved the woman on hisp aside and approached her with a fresh ss of whiskey. The amber liquid swirled ominously. He held it out, but his eyes said something else entirely. “This whiskey is pretty good. Why don’t you try it?”


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