Tempted Trapped and Too Late to Run

Chapter 700

Clara had this uncanny ability. One second, she'd sweep you up to cloud nine; the next, you'd crash straight to rock bottom. It all depended on her mood.

He lowered his gaze, lashes casting shadows on his cheek. His hand, resting beside him, was stiff-fingers curling in, then relaxing, like he was fighting off something only he could feel.

The car turned around, retracing the route they'd just driven. Outside, the rain hammered down harder, thunder rumbling somewhere in the distance. He hated rain. Always had.

Aiden was driving, stealing nervous glances at the rearview mirror. He was worried his boss might sneak another pill. He couldn't help but speak up, “Sir, maybe if you just told your wife about the Westhill plot..."

Maybe she'd finally let her guard down.

Dylan's fingers shook as he reached for the pill bottle, but Aiden's voice cut through from the front.

"You can't keep taking those. After last time, when you passed out for days—the side effects were serious. The doctor told me to keep a close eye on you. If you keep pushing yourself like this... what are we supposed to do?"

Dylan's hand froze. He gritted his teeth and tried to ride out the pain.

I die, just tell her everything. Let her come after me if

nothing he could say would matter

hop out first, ready to grab an umbrella for

already out there, walking

house, but tonight's storm felt relentless, like it was out to

rushed after him. "Sir,

were still things that needed looking after. It wasn't that long ago that he'd almost lost that

those brutal months abroad, the endless rehab. None of it had been easy. Dylan just never talked about

to lose her memory? Why give him hope only to snatch

ground at a market—almost dead, until someone splashes a little water on it, pretending that'll be enough

he just couldn't see what made her so special. The boss always said she was different, but besides her looks and those fighting skills, what was so different

just didn't get it. Still, he hurried to

it back to the master bedroom, slamming the door shut

door. “Tomorrow morning we have to go to the Ferguson estate. The party