CHAPTER 189: SUITE CONFRONTATION

Devon pushed through the heavy double doors of the suite, the air hut him crisp and cool—AC humming soft and steady from hidden vents high up, carrying the faint, clean scent of polished teak wood panels lining the walls.

Fresh orchids blooming white and fragrant on the antique side table carved from ebony, their petals soft and dewy, releasing bursts of sweet, tropical perfume with every subtle draft.

The city sprawled endless and alive below through floor-to-ceiling windows—glass spotless and thick, frames black steel cold to the touch—lights twinkling in a sea of gold and crimson.

Yvonne sat dead center in the sprawling living room—throned in a high-back leather armchair, black as midnight and buttery smooth, legs crossed tight at the knee, ankle over ankle in sheer black stockings that whispered faint with every shift, heel dangling sharp and precarious, red sole flashing like a warning.

Her suit—tailored black wool-silk blend, severe lines cutting clean, silk lapels gleaming subtle under the chandelier—hugged her frame like custom armor, skirt riding just above the knee, hugging hips and thighs, jacket buttoned precise over a white silk blouse that strained faint at the chest with every breath.

Hair pulled back into a flawless chignon, twisted tight with not one strand daring to escape, severe and elegant, pinned with a single diamond clip that caught the light in sharp sparkles.

Lips painted blood red, matte and perfect, not a smudge.

Her eyes locked on him the instant he stepped fully in, cutting through the dim golden light from the massive crystal chandelier above, hundreds of prisms tinkling faint in the AC breeze, scattering rainbows slow across the marble floor.

The frown carved deep between her brows—lines etched like knife scars in porcelain, jaw clenched tight enough to hear the faint grind of teeth, knuckles bone-white gripping the armrests, nails red and almond-shaped digging deep into the leather, leaving tiny crescents.

Around her four assistants frozen mid-motion like statues in a museum: two men in crisp navy suits, ties knotted perfect Windsor, shoes shined to mirror-bright reflecting the chandelier sparks, two women in pencil skirts tight and gray, blouses crisp white, tablets glowing soft blue in their manicured hands, screens reflecting in their designer glasses, fingers hovering mid-tap.

The air thick—tense, electric, humming like a live wire—perfume sharp and expensive, her signature rose and leather cutting dominant through the orchid sweetness, mixing with the faint metallic tang of city air slipping through a cracked window high up, carrying hints of rain and exhaust far below.

She didn’t speak at first.

Just stared.

Breath measured but shallow through her nose, chest rising faint under the jacket.

The frown deepened slow—brows knitting tighter like storm clouds gathering, lips thinning to a razor line that could draw blood, eyes narrowing to slits that could slice steel clean through, pupils contracting sharp.

The room held its breath.

Then—sharp, dismissive, regal—she waved one hand. Nails red and flawless, flashing like rubies under the light, rings glinting gold. "Out. Now. All of you. Leave us."

They moved like shadows fleeing light—heels clicking rapid and panicked on the marble, a staccade of click-click-click echoing high, tablets snapping shut with soft but urgent thwacks, papers rustling faint in trembling hands, briefcases clicking open and shut.

The men bowed deep—necks bending low and submissive, eyes downcast to the rug, breath held respectful and shallow, murmurs soft under breath.

"Sir."

"Dr Devon."

The women curtsied slight—knees bending graceful but hurried, heads dipping low, tablets clutched tight to chests like shields, perfume trailing floral and faint.

Each one passed Devon slow—close enough to smell their cologne sharp and citrus, their fear sour and subtle—and bowed again, deeper, heads low enough to see the part in their hair, spines curved.

Doors shut behind them—double click of the latch, seal tight and final, the sound swallowing the last of their footsteps down the hall.

Silence dropped heavy, sudden, like a velvet curtain falling on a stage mid-act, thick enough to touch.

Only the clock tick-tick-ticking relentless, the AC whisper cool across skin, the city hum far below like a lullaby, the faint scent of orchids blooming stronger in the stillness.

Yvonne didn’t move at first.

Legs still crossed, heel dangling precarious, suit jacket pulling tight over her chest as she breathed slow and controlled, but the anger simmered visible—flush creeping slow up her neck like wine staining silk, pulse jumping faint but frantic in her throat, the way her fingers drummed once—tap-tap-tap—on the armrest, nails clicking leather sharp.

"Did you have anything to do with Klein?"

Straight.

No breath between words.

No warmth in the tone.

Voice low, clipped precise, each syllable a bullet fired point-blank.

Devon didn’t answer.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even shift weight.

He folded his arms slow and deliberate across his chest—muscles flexing thick and corded under the shirt, fabric pulling tight over broad shoulders.

The air between them crackled—thick, electric, charged like the moments before lightning splits the sky, ozone faint in the nose.

She leaned forward slow—elbows planting firm on her knees, skirt riding higher faint on thighs, fingers steepled tight under her chin, nails clicking faint against each other, diamond ring sparkling cold.

Voice rang out—clear, sharp, furious, echoing off the glass walls, bouncing back louder and angrier, filling the vast room like smoke from a fire.

"I knew it. There was said to be semen dripping from her."

"DNA match pending but we both know. You were the last one with her. The last to touch her. The last to fuck her till she stopped breathing."

Her frown carved deeper—lines like canyons now, etched permanent, lips curled slight in disgust and fury, eyes blazing blue fire under the ice, pupils pinpricks of rage.

She stood sudden—chair scraping back loud and harsh on marble, a screech that clawed the silence like nails on chalk, heels clicking sharp and aggressive—click-click-click-click—as she closed the distance step by step, suit jacket flaring slight with motion, skirt hugging hips and thighs tight, blouse shifting silk-soft.

Devon towered above her even in heels but she didn’t back down.

Marched right up—toe to literal toe, chin tilted high and defiant, glaring up into his face, perfume flooding his nose strong now, rose and leather and rage thick enough to taste, breath hot and minty-sharp on his chin, eyes wild and unyielding.

Pointed one finger—nail red and lethal, trembling faint with barely contained fury—jabbed it hard into his chest, right over his heart, nail digging through shirt fabric, scraping skin, stinging sharp and hot.

"You couldn’t leave the poor woman alone. Not even after everything. At what point do you learn? Say no? Stop? Control that beast between your legs? Is this what your life is?"

"Fucking everything that breathes?"

Her voice rose—sharp, cutting, vicious, echoing off the high vaulted ceilings, the expansive glass, the cold marble floors, filling the penthouse like a storm surge, words crashing wave after wave.

"Is that all that matters to you? Pussy? Cum? You want to spoil your career? Throw it all in the trash for another notch on your bedpost? Another corpse to bury?"

She stepped closer—chest nearly brushing his, heat radiating off her skin like a furnace, breath hot and ragged, eyes wild now, chest heaving hard and fast, suit jacket straining at the buttons, blouse gaping faint at the neck.

"I paid millions. Millions, Devon. To shut down the investigation before it started. First the orgy and now this."

"Is this everything about life for you?"

Her finger jabbed again—harder, deeper—nail scraping shirt, twisting faint into skin, drawing a pinprick of blood.

"Is this how you want to live? Keep going till they drag you out in cuffs? Till they hang you from the highest beam in the city? Till your name is poison on every tongue, every screen, every headline?"

She wasn’t done.

Stepped closer—heel grinding hard into marble with a screech, body vibrating with rage, voice dropping low, deadly, intimate.

"You think you’re untouchable? You think money fixes everything? You think I’ll keep cleaning up your mess forever? Silencing screams that never come?"

The room silent but for her breath—heavy, ragged, wet at the edges—the clock tick-tick-ticking relentless like a countdown, the city hum far below like white noise, the faint clink of ice melting slow in the bar bucket, water dripping soft.

She stepped closer—toe to literal toe, chin up high, glaring fire straight into his soul, lips trembling faint with fury and something deeper, perfume overwhelming now.

He moved—lightning fast, predator strike.

Hand shot out—fast, precise, unstoppable—grabbed her chin firm, not cruel but absolute, final. Fingers curling under jaw, thumb pressing hard into

cheek, tilting her face up sharp and forceful, forcing her eyes to his, locking them.

Her breath caught—sharp, audible gasp—eyes widening stupefied, pupils blowing wide black, heart slamming visible in her throat, pulse jumping wild and frantic under his thumb, skin hot and flushed.

She yanked back—hard, violent—hand slapping his wrist loud—SMACK echoing sharp—stumbling two, three, four steps back, heels scraping harsh and uneven on marble, nearly tripping over the rug edge, arms windmilling faint for balance.

Glared harder—chest heaving violent and fast, lips parted wide, breath stuttering ragged, face flushed crimson under powder and poise, eyes wide and shaken to the core, makeup cracking faint at the edges, a single tear of rage glistening unshed.

"Y-you— what the fuck— how dare you—"

Words stuck hard.

Heart thundering loud in her ears—boom-boom-boom-boom—like a war drum, blood rushing hot. Hands trembling violent at her sides, fingers curling into fists then uncurling, nails biting palms.

Devon stepped forward slow—one deliberate step, two, three, four.

Closing the gap again.

Voice low, calm, lethal, cutting through the silence like a heated blade through silk, whiskey-rough from earlier screams.

"Klein begged for it."

Pause. Let it sink deep, heavy, irrevocable.

"I told her she wouldn’t survive. But she begged, insisted and very much wanted to force herself on me. You can’t blame a man for what a woman demands with her last breath, her last scream, her last clench."

Yvonne’s mouth opened—slow, shock raw and total, jaw slack, lips parted wide.

No sound escaped.

Eyes glassy, unblinking, reflecting chandelier sparks. Breath shallow, chest frozen mid-heave.

The words hit like punches to the gut—begged, rape, death, clench—echoing in her skull, bouncing endless.

He leaned in closer—voice softer, darker, intimate, breath warm on her face.

"Don’t worry, I’ll be more careful henceforth."

"And also I won’t be around for a while, I have a wedding to attend to. I will be back just in time for next exhibition event."

He turned slow and then left.

Meanwhike, Yvonne stood frozen—statue-still in the center of the vast room, finger still half-raised like a forgotten accusation, mouth open slack, heart thundering wild and unchecked, shock written deep in every line, every tremor, every shallow breath.

The grab lingered—his fingers on her chin, heat still burning like a brand seared into skin, pulse still racing under her jaw, throat dry and raw, knees weak and buckling faint, vision tunneling.