The recollection of the earlier scene seemed to have triggered the effects of the drug coursing through Stella’s veins. She blinked rapidly, her eyes slightly red and bloodshot, unable to control the trembling of her body.
Justin, kneeling down in front of her, could see something was clearly wrong. His concern deepened as he gently asked, “What exactly is going on with you?”
Stella tried to steady herself but found it difficult. Her voice was weak, laced with desperation. “I’m really sorry. Could you send me to the hospital, please?” she asked, her body shaking uncontrollably.
Meanwhile, in the dimly lit private room, the chaotic noise that had filled the space only moments earlier had come to an abrupt halt. The room had fallen deathly silent. No one dared to speak or move, all eyes flickering nervously to Weston. Since Stella’s abrupt exit, he had gone into a violent rage, smashing everything in his path—from the table in front of him to the wine glass Stella had poured for him. The floor was littered with broken glass, but no one dared to breathe a word.
No one knew why Weston was so worked up, and frankly, even Weston didn’t understand it himself.
Seated in the dark corner of the room, Weston’s posture was disheveled, his dress pants wrinkled from where Stella had been sitting. His buckle gleamed in the light, while the faint red stains on his white shirt were barely visible. His sharp, beautiful eyes were shrouded in shadow, and his heavy breaths betrayed the turmoil he was experiencing.
He took a long drag from his cigarette, the harsh smoke filling the air. His mind replayed the scenes from earlier—he had forced Stella into his embrace, demanding more from her, pinching her chin, and pressing his desire onto her. But he couldn’t understand why he had lost control so completely.
Weston shut his eyes, attempting to block out the overwhelming urge to act again, to repeat what he had done. But just the memory of that moment triggered something deep within him. He cursed inwardly, a sinking feeling creeping in as he realized something wasn’t quite right. There was something else coursing through his veins.
Suddenly, his eyes snapped open, and he turned sharply to the others in the room. “You lit the fragrance in here?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous.
The tension in the room was palpable. Everyone froze, fear etched on their faces.
“I…” One of the men stammered, caught off guard by the sudden shift in atmosphere.
Weston’s suspicion grew. The fragrance in the room wasn’t ordinary. It was laced with ingredients that could affect one’s senses. While it wasn’t harmful to the body, it had aphrodisiac properties. In places like this, it was a common tactic—used sparingly to lighten the mood and encourage indulgence. Most people, after inhaling the scent, would simply feel a sense of light-headedness or intoxication, but for a select few, the effects could be much stronger.
Weston’s face darkened as he realized the implications of what had been happening. The fragrance wasn’t meant to push someone to lose all control, but he had reacted to it far more intensely than anyone else. His senses were overloaded, and it had caused him to snap.
“Mr. Ford,” one of the men ventured hesitantly, “do you not like this smell? I’ll get someone to air out the room right away.”
Weston closed his eyes, his fists clenched tightly. No wonder—it was the fragrance. That was the only explanation for his behavior, for the raw, uncontrollable urges he had felt. He cursed under his breath again.
But the real issue wasn’t the fragrance. His mind turned to Stella. She had been the one to trigger his fury, the one who had made him lose control. His emotions had erupted, and his thoughts had gone dark.
“Stella Sealey…” Weston muttered, his voice a low growl. The name left his lips like a curse, filled with the venom of unresolved anger and longing.
Skip to content