Chapter 727 Elliot: She Will Be Mine from Now On 3
In the parking garage, the cold bit through Molly's soaked clothes, making her shiver.
Elliot opened the door of a black Range Rover and gestured for her to get in.
She hesitated, glancing at the wine stains on her dress. She didn't want to ruin his car. His eyes hardened, a flicker of impatience breaking through. "Get in."
She obeyed, sliding onto the seat with exaggerated care, trying not to touch anything.
A moment later, Elliot got in beside her. The only sound was the faint click of his seatbelt. Even that small noise made Molly flinch.
She turned her head slightly. "Where are we going?" she asked, her voice low.
He fastened his belt, eyes fixed on her for a beat before answering with a trace of mockery. "A hotel. What's wrong? A few years in the industry and you've already mastered the art of playing coy?"
"I haven't," she whispered, her voice rough.
He sat back, gaze forward through the windshield. "Doesn't matter to me either way."
Her face went pale.
The drive was silent, heavy. Ten minutes later, the SUV rolled into the underground parking of a five-star hotel.
When the engine cut off, Elliot turned to her. His expression was unreadable. "You can still walk away."
She lowered her gaze. Wine stains still marked her skin, a faint flush on her cheeks. She looked impossibly young.
She shook her head.
Elliot didn't press. He got out, and she followed him into the lobby. At the front desk, he pulled out his wallet and a black card. "Your best suite."
The receptionist looked up — one man, young and obscenely wealthy; one woman, a famous face from the screen, though disheveled. She didn't need to be told what was going on.
"Presidential suite," she said quickly. "Sixty-six thousand dollars a night."
"Three months," Elliot said flatly.
Her eyes widened. Three months — that was almost six million dollars. Enough to buy a penthouse.
But she only smiled sweetly. "Three months… well, it adds up. But for you, sir, we can take a little off the top — enough to make it worth your while."
He didn't reply.
Molly shifted uncomfortably. "I'd rather stay at home," she murmured.
Her grandmother was there, cared for by staff, but she visited every day.
"I don't care where you live," Elliot said without looking at her. "When I call, you come."
Her cheeks burned.
The receptionist's ears pricked at the exchange, her smile sharpening. This wasn't a romance. This was business.
Elliot placed a stack of bills on the counter. "Get her something to wear."
"Size?" the woman asked.
He glanced at Molly once, then recited her measurements — including her bra size — without hesitation.
Minutes later, they were riding the private elevator to the top floor. The suite was sprawling, three thousand square feet of polished wood and designer furniture. The kind of place that whispered money with every detail.
Once, she'd sold her love for a single million. The thought made her almost laugh.
Elliot shut the door behind them and walked to the sofa. He lit a cigarette, took a drag, then looked at her. "Go take a shower."
His tone was practiced, almost bored, like he'd said those words to countless women before.
She slipped off his coat, wincing at the stains marring the fine wool. It had to be worth at least seventy thousand. He didn't seem to care.
His eyes held a flicker of impatience.
She nodded. "Okay."
She had just reached the bathroom when his voice stopped her. "Wait."
She turned, hope flickering despite herself. Maybe he would soften. Maybe he would treat her like he used to.
But his gaze was cold.
He stubbed out his cigarette, reached into his coat, and pulled out a checkbook. He wrote a number, his pen scratching across the paper. "Fifty million a month. Enough?"
Her bare toes curled into the thick white carpet.
She'd known this was what she was to him now — a transaction — but hearing it still landed like a blow.
"No," she said automatically.
"No?" His smile was sharp. "I don't take without paying. Ms. Lavien, let's keep this simple. Feelings only get in the way. I fund your dreams, you service mine."
They both knew what it meant.
"You can still walk out," he added, his tone harder now.
Tears stung her eyes. "I'll take it," she whispered.
She crossed the room, took the check from his hand, and forced a polite, "Thank you, Mr. Windsor."
Her heart cracked open.
She knew she'd just confirmed his worst opinion of her. But she missed him. She wanted to touch him, even if it meant falling all the way into the dark.
Even if there was no way back.
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