Chapter 142

The resort was located in the neighboring city, City C.

Upon entering the car, Layla checked the map and realized it was even further than she expected - a three-hour drive each way.

She left at nine and arrived at the resort by half-past eleven. She was greeted by Mr. Smith, a man in his forties, who insisted they have lunch before getting down to business.

The meal lingered well past an hour, and then Layla began her whirlwind tour of the resort, asking questions and taking measurements. By the time she caught a break, it was past four, and getting back would mean arriving around seven, yet she had only seen half the resort.

Mr. Smith glanced at his watch and suggested, "Look, Layla, it's already half-past four. Let's call it a day. Have dinner, stay the night, and we'll continue tomorrow."

"I'd rather come back tomorrow," Layla said, eager to return.

"But that's six hours on the road. Why put yourself through that? Your room is ready. Let's eat first."

"Mr. Smith, I'm not sure that..."

Mr. Smith locked eyes with her, his gaze uncomfortably intense. "Impressive, such a young lady and so hardworking. Design isn't an easy field. Honestly, you've got my admiration. Our resort is famous for its hot springs. Go and enjoy the fountain tonight, relax a little..."

As Mr. Smith reached out to place a hand on her, Layla swiftly stepped aside.

Mr. Smith had been prying into her personal life since she arrived, occasionally making off-color remarks that made her uneasy. But he was a client, and she couldn't afford to offend him, so she pretended not to understand.

Seeing her flushed face, Mr. Smith's wicked intent grew. "Why is your face all red? Feeling shy? Never had a boyfriend back in school? You're so innocent. Don't worry, I'm a good guy, I won't give you any trouble... C'mon, let's go have dinner."

Mr. Smith boldly reached to wrap his arm around Layla's waist.

"Mr. Smith..." Layla frowned.

"Layla."

Suddenly, a familiar voice rang out.

"Mr. Marley? What brings you here?" Layla managed to pry herself from Mr. Smith's hand and move behind Nathan after a split second of surprise.

"Ah, Mr. Marley, why didn't you give a heads-up before coming over?" Mr. Smith, the slick operator, acted as if nothing had happened and approached with a greasy smile. "I was just about to have dinner with Layla, but she insists on leaving."

"I want to go back," Layla interjected quickly.

But Nathan had other ideas. He had a candlelit dinner and a romantic confession all planned out.

Nathan quickly thought on his feet, deciding to go with the flow; the dinner might be a waste, but the confession was key.

"Are you done with work?" Nathan asked.

Layla shook her head, "Not yet, I've only seen half of it. I'll come earlier tomorrow."

"That's such a waste of time. Since Mr. Smith has already made arrangements, why not stay tonight? I'll keep you company." Nathan inwardly admired Nora for thinking everything through so carefully. Meeting at this remote resort, he had the perfect excuse to keep her.

Layla opened her mouth uncertainly as if to say something but ultimately nodded in acceptance.

Mr. Smith called over a few resort managers, booked a private room, and Layla found an excuse to step away and make a phone call in the hallway.

As soon as the call connected, Samuel's first question was, "Is Mr. Vandella downstairs? Are you done for the day?"

Feeling the pressure, Layla replied in a meek voice, "I... I'm still at the resort, haven't finished my work, I won't be coming back tonight."

"Not coming back?"

Through the phone, Layla could feel a chill in the air and shivered.

"Yeah, I'm at a resort in City C. It's a three-hour drive back." She scratched her head in frustration. "I didn't expect it to be so far, and I thought I'd be done and back by the afternoon. If I go back now, I'll have to come all the way back again tomorrow."

After a pause...

Layla licked her lips, feeling an uncomfortable anxiety. "Are you mad?"

"No."

"You are, I can tell."

"What do you want me to say?" His voice was calm, without a hint of anger, but it only made Layla feel worse.

"Sorry, I miscalculated today. Can I make it up to you when I get back?"

"Who were you with?"

"...Alice. Alice and I came together, and we're sharing a room. Besides, there's a really heavy storm; driving would be too dangerous," Layla blurted out all in one breath.

The guiltier she felt, the faster she spoke, terrified her lie would be uncovered. After speaking, her heart thumped violently in her chest.

She regretted it instantly-lying to him, claiming she was with Alice and then unnecessarily concocting a story about the storm.

He trusted her so much, and yet she lied to him. Overwhelmed with guilt, she felt terrible.

Was it an instinct to lie when one was nervous? It was too late to come clean now, and she wished she could slap herself.

"Okay." Samuel didn't press further.

Not knowing what else to say and afraid of making things worse, Layla hesitantly suggested, "I should get some dinner. Can we talk tomorrow?"

"Sure."

The call ended.

Silence followed.

High atop a skyscraper.

The Lavish Palace restaurant sparkled with lights.

Samuel sat next to a floor-to-ceiling window, dressed sharply in a suit.

Inside, champagne flowed, and a pianist played soft music live, setting a romantic mood.

The manager came in, pointing excitedly outside the window, "Mr. Holland, the fireworks are all set. At eight, Miss Adkins will have a front-row seat to an amazing display in this direction."

However, there wasn't a hint of excitement on Samuel's face. His eyes were downcast, his expression cold, and through his lashes, a hint of dejection could be seen.

The proposal wasn't urgent, but with everything ready and her absence, disappointment was natural.

"Cancel it."

"Excuse me?" The manager was stunned.

"Cancel it," Samuel repeated as he stood up and strode out of the restaurant.

Downstairs, he got into a black Bentley.

"To City C," the man's detached voice commanded.

"Yes, Mr. President."

Outside, as the traffic thinned, occasional lights passed by, casting shadows across Samuel's face, flickering between light and dark.

Today, he wasn't wearing his usual black but a white shirt instead, which made him look a bit paler, less intimidating, and the color seemed drained from his lips.

The car took a turn, heading toward the highway.

Samuel's phone rang, and his pupils briefly brightened, but as soon as he saw the name on the screen, they dimmed again and returned to his usual indifference.

"Mr. Holland, your father had a sudden heart attack; he's been rushed to the hospital," the butler's anxious voice reported.

Yet Samuel remained eerily calm, a hint of scorn even flashing in his eyes.

Why should he care about a heart attack? Even if his father passed away today, Samuel doubted he would feel even a hint of sorrow.

"Bodyguard, come over here, now."