Chapter 2 The Devil Walks In

I stood with Sophie in front of the Beverly Hills Hotel's iconic pink façade, watching as the setting sun painted it an ominous rose color. Several luxury cars were parked at the entrance, and my eyes instinctively fixed on a black Maybach—Ethan's favorite model. Instantly, my breathing quickened, and my palms grew clammy.

Calm down, Olivia. Plenty of people drive Maybachs. It's not necessarily him.

"This is amazing!" Sophie exclaimed, eagerly taking photos. "This place is literally a celebrity landmark. I heard every major star from Hollywood's Golden Age has stayed here."

I forced a smile, but my mind involuntarily flashed back to the first time I'd come here. On my eighteenth birthday, Blake had brought me here, reserving a suite with a private garden to celebrate. We'd only been dating a short while then.

The second time was etched in my memory with perfect clarity: July 7th, my nineteenth birthday. Ethan had reserved the entire Polo Lounge for my celebration, inviting over a dozen global celebrities, including five singers I adored who took turns performing just for me—like a private concert created exclusively for an audience of one. That night I'd worn a Chanel dress he personally selected, sitting beside him as he introduced me to everyone like a prized possession.

After that, I became a regular here, with the Presidential Suite perpetually reserved in my name. He often said: "Besides my bed, this is your favorite place." And I could only remain silent.

"Look at you, all wide-eyed like you've never seen anything fancy before. Your eyes are actually getting red," Sophie said, cupping my face. "Once we land this contract, I'll treat you to dinner here."

"Sure," I managed to reply.

"Let's go in and work our magic!" She patted my shoulder and guided me inside.

The lobby was just as opulent as I remembered—crystal chandeliers twinkling overhead, marble floors reflecting our silhouettes. Every decoration, every fixture reminded me of those days when I was under his control. My heart raced and my throat tightened, but I forced myself to stay composed. You escaped, Olivia. You're here for business. Be professional.

The staff escorted us to our scheduled meeting room.

We entered the suite and found Frank already there. He greeted us enthusiastically, "Finally! Did you bring all the materials?"

"Of course," Sophie replied, waving her folder. "We're fully prepared."

Just as we were about to take our seats, a staff member in a black suit knocked and entered.

"I apologize for the interruption," he said politely, "but Mr. Crawford has requested that the meeting be moved to the Presidential Suite on the top floor. A special guest is joining, and this room isn't suitable."

My heart plummeted, my stomach twisting into a knot. "Who's the guest?" I asked, my voice noticeably trembling.

The staff member shook his head. "I'm afraid I don't know."

Sophie squeezed my ice-cold hand. "Don't worry, this is good news. We might get an even bigger deal."

I forced another smile, trying to disguise the panic rising inside me. It can't be him. It can't be Ethan. Vincent and he are rivals—they wouldn't be in the same place. But deep down, a sense of foreboding began to spread.

During the elevator ride up, my heart hammered against my ribs. Standing in front of the Presidential Suite, the golden nameplate burned into my eyes. I took a deep breath, struggling to control my trembling.

"Olivia, you look really nervous," Sophie whispered. "Are you feeling okay?"

"I'm fine," I whispered back. "Just anxious—this is an important meeting." What if it is him? Can I remain professional? Or will I crumble like before?

The suite was as luxurious as ever: Baroque-style furniture, expansive floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Los Angeles's glittering cityscape. My eyes were involuntarily drawn to the Steinway piano in the corner—where Ethan had once asked me to play for him. The memory was so vivid, as if it had happened yesterday.

"What should I play?" I'd asked, my fingers lightly touching the keys.

"Whatever you want," he'd said, leaning against the piano, his gaze intense. "But I want you to play only for me."

That night I played Chopin's "Raindrop" Prelude, every note infused with emotions I couldn't express. He stood there, watching me intently, as if committing my every movement, every expression to memory. Afterward, he pulled me into his arms and whispered in my ear: "Everyone thinks I've imprisoned you, but what you don't know is that you've imprisoned me."

I snapped back to reality, forcing myself to focus. Around the conference table sat several men in tailored suits—Crawford Group executives, I assumed.

Frank stepped forward and began introductions: "This is Sophie Taylor, our Marketing Director, and this is Olivia Reed, our Chief Designer and the creative soul behind the 'Jade Dynasty' collection."

I nodded politely to everyone, trying to appear professionally confident. Everything will be fine. Vincent Crawford will arrive soon, we'll discuss business, sign the contract, and I'll leave Los Angeles, far away from all these nightmares.

Just as I began to relax slightly, a familiar voice came from outside: "I've reviewed her collection, and it's quite impressive. Thank you for the recommendation."

I recognized Vincent's voice.

Then came another voice, even more familiar: "You're welcome. But I didn't do it for you."

My heart stopped. After five years, that voice could still instantly pull me back into my nightmares. My eyelashes trembled, my vision blurred momentarily, and my breathing became rapid and painful. No, impossible. Why him? Why now?

This couldn't be coincidence. It was meticulously planned, just like eight years ago when I "accidentally" wandered into that house where he was recovering from his injury. I'd thought it was chance back then, only learning later it was an elaborate trap Ethan had set, everything calculated to draw me in.

I abruptly stood up, my face surely as white as paper. I could feel my heart nearly bursting from my chest, my legs weakening, but I forced myself to stand firm.

The door opened, and Vincent Crawford walked in with a smile. Behind him, the tall, imposing figure that stepped through made my world collapse in an instant.

Ethan Bennett.

He wore his customary tailored black suit, and those steel-gray eyes in his sharply defined face scanned the room before locking directly onto me.