Ch37 - Fat pig

When Felix came back balancing a plate of lamb chops, only Lydia was there.

“Uh… where’s Violet?” he asked, looking around.

Lydia shrugged casually. “No idea.”

Something about the party suddenly felt off—there were fewer people outside than before, and the music had softened to a low hum. Felix frowned, handing Lydia the plate. “Here, take this for a sec—”

She pushed it right back into his hands. “How am I supposed to eat if you’re not holding it? I’ve got a glass in my hand.”

He sighed, giving up. “Fine. Let’s sit over there, then.”

As they moved toward the tables, Lydia’s gaze flicked upward. One of the villa’s second-floor windows glowed faintly in the dark. The corner of her mouth curled. Whatever she saw—or thought she saw—seemed to lighten her mood. She took a bite of lamb, the rich, savory flavor matching her sudden sense of satisfaction.

Outside, the laughter and chatter began to thin out. Most guests had wandered back inside.

Someone had started a poker game, a few gathered around the kitchen island, opening another round of champagne. The air was thick with the scent of alcohol and grilled meat. On the sofas, some half-asleep, mumbling nonsense into a throw pillow.

Lydia eventually drifted indoors too, scanning the crowd. No sign of Julian. She figured he’d stepped into the front garden—he had a habit of doing that when business talk turned serious. That didn’t surprise her.

But as for Violet…

Her grip slipped. “Oh, shit—”

Red wine splashed across the front of her clothes, staining the pale fabric deep crimson.

“You alright?” Felix was at her side immediately, taking the glass and plate out of her hands. “Damn, that’s everywhere. Go change, before it sets.”

Lydia’s fingers clenched the front of her robe, unmoving. “It’s sticky all over,” she said lightly. “I’ll just rinse off and change into something else.”

Felix didn’t suspect a thing. “Good idea.”

Once she’d rounded the corner and slipped out of sight, Lydia kicked off her heels and stepped barefoot onto the cool marble staircase.

The upper floor was dim, just a few wall sconces casting a muted amber glow. The party was centered outside and downstairs—the rooms up here were supposed to be off-limits.

But down the hall, the third door on the right leaked a sliver of light through the crack.

It wasn’t bright, but against the otherwise dark corridor, it stood out sharply. Lydia tightened her hold on her phone, padding silently toward it.

Her fingers wrapped around the doorknob. She eased it down carefully, holding her breath—

And in the next instant, a thick, clammy hand shot out and grabbed her wrist, yanking her violently inside.

The light went out.

The room plunged into darkness.

She gasped, but before she could scream, she was pulled against a heavy, unfamiliar body. Her mind went blank, panic roaring in her ears.

“Who—who the hell—” she managed, before a hand clamped over her mouth.

Her pulse exploded. She kicked and twisted, but another hand slid over her chest, groping crudely.

Her pupils blew wide with terror. She arched her back and drove her heel down with all her strength, crushing the man’s foot.

He howled. She threw her head back, the back of her skull connecting with his chin with a loud crack.

The man stumbled backward with a curse, crashing onto the floor.

The pressure over her mouth vanished. Lydia’s scream tore out, raw and piercing—but the sound went nowhere. The room was well insulated, and downstairs the music still pulsed, masking everything.

She reached desperately toward where she thought the door was—but before she could touch it, a hand seized her ankle, dragging her back hard across the carpet.

“DAMN,” the man snarled in accented English, breathing heavily. “Didn’t expect someone so delicate to fight like a wildcat.”

The voice hit her like a slap. She froze—then recognition dawned.

“OPEN your fucking eyes and look at who you just grabbed!” she spat.

The man—Henri—froze. For a second, there was only the sound of his ragged breathing. Then he scrambled to his feet, tripping over himself, fumbling for the switch.

The light flicked on.

And the color drained from his face.

She leaned against the corner, arms crossed over her chest, desperately holding the robe closed. Underneath, the swimsuit strap had been ripped loose, so both hands were clamped tight to stop the robe from falling—she didn’t even notice the sticky wine soaking through the fabric. 

Her hair was a mess, sweat and stray strands clinging to her forehead. Her eyes shone with tears, but her gaze was stubborn, hard.

“You… how could… how could it be you?” Henri stammered, tongue tied with nerves. His eyes were darting everywhere—this was supposed to be Julian’s date, right? Not Lydia. Because they were about the same height he hadn’t realized at first.

Just thinking about that fat pig touching her made Lydia want to puke. She ground her teeth until they shook. “YOU filthy bastard.”

Henri’s forehead was already flushed from where she’d hit him; something in his face twitched like an exposed nerve. He stammered, “I—no… you said she’d come into the room… I didn’t think it—would be you…”

Earlier, Lydia had greeted him warmly, wished him a good time, and even mentioned—almost casually, that Julian was sending his date upstairs to help smooth the deal.

The woman he’d been waiting for never came. Instead, he’d somehow offended the heir of an insurance empire—who was now calling him a filthy bastard. The whole thing left a sour taste in his mouth. 

Lydia barely heard him. Her eyes were bloodshot. “I’m going to make you pay TEN times over,” she said, each word a slow, heavy bite.

“No—” Henri was stunned. He hadn’t planned to do anything that serious; he just wanted a quick thrill, maybe get to know Violet a bit—the circles traded companions sometimes. But if he’d made the mistake of touching Lydia, that was a whole other disaster.

He’d done well enough in Swiss and French circles, but this was on the other side of the ocean—local power mattered. He’d accidentally pissed off someone you don’t piss off. 

Still, she’d barged in too—he wasn’t the only one at fault. He hadn’t meant for any of this to happen, but right now he was clearly in the wrong. He just couldn’t let anyone see them like this.

“—it’s a misunderstanding, it’s a misunderstanding, okay? I—I’ll go now,” he blurted, gulping cold air.

“NO misunderstanding! I’ll have my father deal with you,” Lydia snarled, eyes blazing, like she wanted to rip him apart. She hadn’t tolerated even a sliver of humiliation her whole life.

Henri regretted it down to his guts. “Look, blaming me won’t fix things. Don’t you have any responsibility? Or do you want me to get others to judge who’s right?” he shot back, trying to deflect.

“YOU say one more word and I’ll kill you!” Lydia’s eyes were about to spit fire.

But if anyone walked in on them now, her face would be ruined forever. She bit her lip until it went white and—reluctantly—let him slip away.

Just as she trembled to speak, there was a sudden knock at the door.

Both of them froze, every hair on their body standing on end. They held their breath, straining to listen.

“Lydia? You in there?” Felix’s voice came through. No answer. After awhile, he knocked again—this time on the next door.

Lydia didn’t dare relax. She hissed under her breath, “GET OUT. If I get caught with you here, I won’t forgive you.”

Henri fumbled, heart pounding. He’d always been bold, but now his hands felt unsteady. He turned the doorknob as quietly as he could—then the door swung open, and his heart nearly stopped.

Felix stood right there, perfectly still, eyes glinting with something cold and terrible.