She Used Me for a Dare… Now I Own Her Mother

The heavy restroom door swung open, and the pounding bass of the club hit them at once. Alex stepped out first, fixing his cuffs, with Naomi trailing half a pace behind as they cut straight back into the heat and noise of the crowded lounge.

They had pieced themselves together as best they could in the dim mirror, but some things refused to be smoothed away.

Naomi’s gown was smoothed down, but the fine fabric around her hips and lower waist clung with telltale wrinkles, faintly damp where his hands had pinned her against the cold partition.

She kept her chin high and her jaw rigid, yet every step betrayed her. Her thighs carried a stiff, guarded hitch... the subtle, unsteady gait of a woman whose legs were still trembling, whose core was swollen, aching, and starved of the release she had begged for.

Any sharp eye in the room would know within half a second what had just transpired against the bathroom tiles.

Neither of them cared.

They cut past the service corridor and emerged onto the upper tier of the main lounge.

The crowd had swelled significantly. The late-night clientele had flooded in — arrogant corporate scions, high-end escorts, and small-time businessmen burning fortunes on top-shelf liquor in the desperate hope of making connections under the amber chandeliers.

Laughter and clinking crystal masked the tension, but the room’s electric center had collapsed.

The dance floor was dead by comparison. The intoxicating magnetism that had held the entire hall captive twenty minutes ago was gone.

Violette Valenne had vanished without a trace, slipping back into whatever untouchable shadow she commanded, and Raymond Cole was nowhere to be seen among the swaying bodies.

”Looks like we’re a bit too late. We lost them,” Alex said, his gaze sweeping the crowded floor.

A sharp prick of embarrassment hit Naomi’s chest. It was entirely her fault — her lack of control in that stall had cost them more than ten critical minutes.

Alex turned to her, his tone flat and commanding.

”Lead the way to his room. If he left the floor, that’s where he went. Let’s just hope they haven’t reached him first.”

”Okay,” Naomi answered, clearing her throat and forcing her mind back into operational focus.

She stepped out ahead to take the lead, steering them away from the crowded main elevators and cutting straight toward the private access stairs.

As they neared the landing, Naomi’s eyes flicked instinctively toward the shadowy corner table near the pillar where her husband had been positioned to monitor the room.

It was completely empty.

He was gone. There was no sign of him.

’​Did he follow the old man down?’ she thought, a cold knot tightening in her chest. Something was definitely off.

Her stride lengthened, heels clicking rapidly against the polished floor as she picked up the pace, taking the service stairs two at a time.

’Just don’t die, old man,’ she cursed silently, her heart hammering against her ribs. ’Not before we complete our mission and get our money.’

***

They hit the first-floor corridor. Here, thick crimson carpeting swallowed their footsteps, the air cool, quiet, and smelling of polished mahogany and hotel linen.

Alex swept his eyes down the length of the hall, but there was none of the chaos he expected. No tactical squads stacking against the walls, no armed thugs securing the exits — none of the bloody spectacle that hot-blooded brat had snarled into his phone. The corridor was completely calm, disturbed only by a lone hotel porter wheeling a silent luggage cart around the far bend.

Alex followed close behind. Naomi kept a fast, urgent pace, her heels sinking silently into the plush runner as she navigated the dimly lit hallway. In seconds, they reached Suite 104, tucked deep into the quiet corner at the far end of the private wing.

The brass door handle was still, the digital keycard scanner glowing a steady, undisturbed green.

Naomi reached it first. She gripped the handle and pushed down.

Locked.

She leaned her shoulder against the dark wood, pressing her ear to the seam. She held her breath, tuning her senses to the frequencies of an elite operative... listening for the rustle of clothing, the dull clink of a glass, or the rhythmic draw of a man’s lungs.

Nothing. Not a sound.

She tapped the panel twice. ”Mr. Cole?”

Silence answered.

Alex stepped up beside her, his hands casually shoved into his trouser pockets. He didn’t bother knocking. He simply closed his eyes for a split second, letting his perception cut straight through the reinforced partition.

”Don’t waste your breath,” Alex said, his voice flat. ”The room is dead. He didn’t come here.”

Naomi stepped back, running a hand through her hair, her jaw clenching tight. ”If he didn’t come here, where the hell did he go? Don’t tell me they already captured him.”

A faint, mocking smirk tugged at Alex’s mouth.

’Captured him? If only it were that easy. They wouldn’t last ten seconds against Raymond Cole if the old monster actually decided to fight back.’

He looked at Naomi, amused by the fraying edges of her composure. She was supposed to be a hardened mercenary, an elite tracker, yet the denial and physical unraveling she’d endured in that restroom stall had clearly scrambled her head.

​”Why don’t you call your husband?” Alex asked, his voice smooth and lazy. ”Maybe he knows where the old man went, or maybe he’s already with him.”

​The question snapped through her daze.

​”Right.”

Naomi fished her phone from the hidden slit in her gown, her thumb tapping the screen with hurried precision. She brought the device to her ear, staring down the empty corridor as the line clicked open.

Ring. Ring. Nothing.

The dial tone stretched on, harsh and rhythmic in the quiet hallway, before cutting abruptly.

She pulled the phone away, staring at the blank screen as a fresh spike of panic hit her chest. Her knuckles went white against the casing.

​”He isn’t answering,” she said, looking up at Alex, her voice tight and strained. ”What do we do now?”

”Don’t worry,” Alex said, his voice low, steady, and entirely unbothered. He didn’t offer soft comfort; it was the cold, grounding certainty of a man who didn’t know how to panic. ”Marcus has been doing this long enough to stay alive on his own. Losing your head won’t help him.”

He stepped away from the locked door, his eyes fixing on her. ”You two have been staying in the hotel with Cole, right?”

Naomi nodded, swallowing hard as she forced her breathing back under control. ”Yeah. He had clients coming in at all hours. He booked Marcus and me a room on the floor above so we were always on call.”

”Good. That means you’ve had eyes on him for days,” Alex said. ”Where do you think he like to go?Any particular spot he favors? Aside from the bar and this room, obviously.”

Naomi frowned, sifting back through the past week of surveillance logs and grueling twelve-hour shifts.

Cole’s routine had been pure, reckless hedonism. When he wasn’t down in the lounge burning money and drowning himself in top-shelf liquor, he was locked in his suite with expensive escorts. The old bastard only ever bothered sobering up when there was a contract to sign or a client sitting across the table.

Then a memory clicked.

”He doesn’t have a set routine,” Naomi said slowly, meeting his gaze. ”But there’s an open terrace at the far edge of the rear botanical garden—a stone overlook past the glass pavilions.”

​She paused, picturing the place.

​”It sits right on the outer rim of the property, hanging over the cliffside. Great breeze, dead quiet, and it looks straight out over the city skyline. A couple of times I caught him standing out there alone by the railing, staring into the lights for hours without moving.”

She looked toward the service corridor leading to the exterior grounds.

”I asked him why he was wandering around in the cold without an escort. He just brushed me off with a dry laugh... told me hotel suites felt like holding cells, and that an old bastard like him needed natural air to clear his head.”

A faint, predatory smile touched the corner of Alex’s mouth.

”A garden.”