Chapter 87 Charles Won't Believe Me
Suppressing her own emotions, Daphne tried to reason with him again. "If you have any doubts or if there's something you don't believe, just spell it out."
"Somebody knocked on Evan's door to deliver a letter, who was that? Why deliver it? Isn't calling the police the best solution if someone's been kidnapped?" Charles threw at her all the questions she expected him to ask.
"Hold on a second," Daphne interjected.
Not now, of all times!
She took out her phone and called Evan, requesting him to send her the letter. After they hung up, Evan promptly sent over a snapshot.
Daphne opened the image and showed it to Charles.
Reading it word for word, Charles had only one thought: Evan was Evan, so perfect at making up excuses without leaving a single trace.
"The person who delivered the letter is being checked out on the hotel's surveillance footage," Daphne explained.
Charles dropped her phone on the table, looking at her as if she were a stranger, his gaze piercingly cold. "What's next? Are you going to tell me the hotel's surveillance is down?"
"You don't believe it?" she asked.
"What would you think if you were in my shoes?" Charles stood up, his chest tight with agitation. "The letter was probably written by someone you hired, just to send me on a wild goose chase to verify handwriting when I ask."
Daphne felt the conversation suffocating her. Hadn't she explained everything thoroughly?
The chill in Charles's eyes seemed to crystallize, an aloofness enveloping him. Daphne could feel the divide growing between them.
The tension hung heavy for a moment.
"Daphne," Charles said her name without a trace of warmth, "I really misjudged you."
With those final words, he left the room, slamming the door behind him with a loud bang.
He had wanted to trust her. But after seeing her leave the hotel with Evan, before he had asked anything, she confessed it all willingly. How could he still believe her?
The more he thought about it, the more Charles felt like a fool.
He didn't call anyone; instead, he hopped in his car and drove to the nearest bar. Right now, he needed to numb himself with alcohol. He was afraid he'd go storming after Daphne, afraid he couldn't rein in his emotions, afraid he'd hurt her, even if unintentionally.
Daphne had already been hurt.
She stared at the trembling door, her heart—calm for so long—pierced by a sudden pain. Her head was filled with the image of Charles's resolute departure, and his words echoed in her mind—“Daphne, I really misplaced my trust in you.”
She felt a tightness in her chest.
Had it not been for Evan's call, she might have sunk into an abyss of emotions that she hadn't experienced in a long time. The moment she answered, Evan detected the strain in her voice and asked, “What's wrong?”
"Charles doesn't believe me," Daphne said, her eyes downcast, one hand propping up her forehead.
Evan pondered for a moment, then inquired, "What did you say to him?"
Daphne recounted their entire conversation, with no detail omitted.
“There, there. I'll talk to him,” Evan soothed her, aware of the emotional toll the situation had taken on her. “The way you explained it, it's easy for someone to think you're confessing without being pressured, looking for an excuse.”
“Why do you say that too?” Daphne was confused.
All she wanted was to lay everything out at once, to avoid an argument that escalated with every exchanged sentence.
Evan, with a gentle smile, helped her sort through the matter, “It’s just your way, to ignore things you haven't done and only fight back when truly aggravated. Charles knows you after two years together—he couldn't possibly misunderstand that.”
His words stirred something within Daphne.
She had indeed never been one to proactively clarify misunderstandings.
"Don’t worry, I’ll talk sense into him," Evan assured her, confident in how to approach Charles.
After a brief acknowledgment, Daphne hung up and let her phone slide off the table onto the desk. She collapsed onto the sofa, her mind a messy jumble.
She thought she'd manage to pull herself together after a while, but for some reason, today her mind kept replaying Charles's cold words and the chilly distance of his leaving.
Ten more minutes passed, and she still couldn't shake off her mood. Standing up, she left the apartment and hailed a cab to a downtown bar—only realizing she'd left her phone behind when it was time to pay the fare. Dismissing the idea of going back for it, she paid with her wallet and entered the bar.
The bar was a riot of colors and noise. Daphne found a spot and casually ordered two drinks.
She didn’t drink to get drunk.
And she wasn't about to start.
She was here just for the chaos that matched her current state of mind.
Just as her drink was served, someone slid into the seat next to hers, kicking off a flirty conversation. "Hey there, flying solo?"
"Move along," Daphne replied, her tone icy cold.
"Hey, lighten up! We're all just here to have a good time. How about we share a drink?" The man sidled up closer to her, slipping a drug into her drink without drawing any attention.
Daphne had seen this trick pulled countless times before.
Meanwhile, several other guys had started to crowd around her.
Even in the dimly lit bar, Daphne stood out. Her beauty was the kind that caught your eye instantly—a delicate chilliness wrapped with a hint of serene grace that easily drew attention, making her a target.
Crowded places weren't her thing, nor was the feeling of strangers closing in on her.
She hadn't opted for a private booth tonight; instead, she chose a busy table out in the open—partly because she was in a foul mood and partly so she'd have a good reason to throw a few punches if anyone caused trouble.
"Sweetheart, you've got quite the interesting personality," one cooed.
"Tonight's on me, little lady," another offered generously. "Order whatever you fancy, my treat."
Each had their say, pitching in with their own brand of charm. One even pushed the tampered drink toward Daphne with a grin that screamed 'just making friends.'
Taking the drink, Daphne watched the men exchange self-assured glances as if sharing a private joke.
But Daphne was onto them; she knew these guys were in cahoots with the one who had spiked her drink.
"I think you boys should have this one," she said coolly, her voice unchanged by the blaring music.
The music was so loud they barely heard her. Before they could ask her to repeat it, Daphne grabbed the cheek of the man who had handed her the drink. With a quick movement, she forced his mouth open and poured the drink down his throat.
The whole thing happened so quickly that they didn't have time to react.
Her gaze swept over them. "You really think I wouldn't notice you've doctored the drink?"
"So what if you know?" one of them scoffed.
"She drank it!" another blurted, annoyed.
"If she did, isn't it all the better? Once she's all drowsy, we can give her a thrill she won't forget," a third chimed in, insinuating.
"Sweetie, whether you know or not, the outcome's the same—around here, I call the shots," the ringleader asserted confidently.
"Is that so?" Daphne remained unfazed.
"Are you going to walk out with us on your own, or do we need to carry you?" The man who spiked her drink thought he had the upper hand, "You'll feel less cold in our arms."
"I'm not really in the best mood today," Daphne remarked, wiping her hands with a tissue after touching the man, her cleanliness showing. "If you beg for mercy now and turn yourselves in, I might let you off without a beating."
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