I Married the President

Chapter 15: Chapter 15: Had a Dream

Adrian Quincy didn’t get any closer, looking down at her flushed face from his superior height. ”Contraband and unruly women are not allowed here. I’ll let it slide this time. Endure it on your own. There won’t be a next time.”

With that, he turned and left.

Claire Sinclair: ”...”

’The least you could do is take me to a hospital, for God’s sake!!!’

’I can’t take it anymore... It’s unbearable...’

Claire Sinclair was as helpless as a lost child. It was her first time experiencing something like this, and she had no idea how to endure it. All she wanted was to faint and let the pain stop.

...

A few minutes later, an uneasy Adrian Quincy returned, pushing the door open to enter.

The massive bed was empty, but he could hear a woman’s ragged, anxious breathing.

Adrian Quincy frowned slightly and strode over.

The girl was lying on the floor. Her arms bore several alarming, bloody scratches—self-inflicted, by the looks of it.

By now, she no longer had the strength to continue scratching herself; her arms had gone limp.

Driven by a foreign sense of compassion, Adrian Quincy moved to the girl’s side, no longer content to stand by and do nothing.

...

When Claire Sinclair awoke, it was in a large, unfamiliar bed. Her hair was a mess, her body felt drained of all strength, and her mind was completely groggy.

Just then, a phone on the nightstand suddenly began to vibrate.

Claire Sinclair jolted to her senses and picked up the phone. The notifications were all from Logan Linden.

Dozens of messages. He was clearly furious.

Logan Linden: Bitch, don’t think I’ll let you off just because you’re hiding in there!

Logan Linden: Two million. I want every last cent!

Logan Linden: You worthless bitch!

Logan Linden: @#$%&!*...

There were more than a dozen messages, each one a vile string of insults and curses, too foul to read.

Claire Sinclair’s eyes narrowed, a fire of pure fury igniting in their depths.

Just as she was about to block his number and delete the messages, the phone died, its battery depleted.

Dammit!

She had no choice but to put the phone down and survey her surroundings.

The bedroom was starkly minimalist: a white bed, a white nightstand, a white built-in wardrobe, white curtains, a white rug, and a white floor lamp.

Nothing else.

Clearly, the room’s owner was obsessed with the color white.

She wanted to shower and change, but in this unfamiliar room, she didn’t dare touch the owner’s belongings. It was a matter of basic courtesy.

Just as she was stewing in her frustration, there were two sharp knocks on the door.

A woman in a business suit walked in, holding a paper bag from the ’A’ apparel brand.