Chapter 274

Sophia stirred awake from her dazed state, her lashes fluttering as she opened her eyes.

The ceiling blurred and then sharpened in her vision.

She pushed herself up from the mattress, immediately wincing at the wave of stifling heat that hit her. The room was sweltering, thick enough to choke on.

"Is the AC broken?" she muttered, rubbing her temples.

A sharp, acrid scent suddenly filled her nostrils.

Her head snapped toward the source, her pupils contracting.

In the dim corner of the sofa, the ember of a cigarette pulsed faintly. Through the haze of smoke, a pair of dark, unreadable eyes watched her coldly.

"Ah!"

Sophia jolted back, her spine hitting the headboard.

"Ethan Roscente, are you insane?!" She grabbed a pillow and hurled it at him. "What kind of sick joke is this, lurking in the dark like some ghost?"

The man’s tall frame remained half-shrouded in shadow, the cigarette between his fingers casting a faint glow. He exhaled a slow, deliberate stream of smoke, his voice low. "You were sleeping so soundly."

Her teeth ground together.

She threw off the covers and swung her legs over the side, her bare feet hitting the scorching floor.

"Did you turn my AC into a sauna?" She stormed to the control panel—sure enough, the display read 32°C.

Ethan stubbed out the cigarette, his metal lighter flipping deftly in his palm.

"Tyler Galatea is dead," he said abruptly.

Her fingers froze midair.

"...What?"

He stood, his long legs encased in tailored slacks carrying him toward her in measured steps. One hand planted on the wall beside her head, caging her in with the mingled scents of tobacco and his cold, expensive cologne.

"I said," he murmured, leaning in until his breath brushed her ear, his tone deceptively tender, "I threw that trash who dared lay hands on you into the ocean for the fish."

A cold sweat broke out down her back.

She forced a laugh, shoving him away. "Mr. Roscente, are you confessing to murder for my sake?"

Ethan chuckled darkly, his thumb tracing the red marks on her wrist—left by Tyler’s grip.

"I hate filth."

Sophia suddenly laughed outright.

Tilting her head to study his stormy expression, she batted her lashes. "Ethan Roscente, don’t tell me..." She dragged out the pause deliberately. "You’re jealous?"

His gaze darkened.

"I own this hotel," he said instead, his fingers hooking into the strap of her nightgown. "And I opened this door."

She slapped his hand away. "So?"

"So," he scooped her up and tossed her back onto the bed in one motion, loosening his tie with his free hand, "if I can’t sleep, neither can you."

Sophia struggled to sit up, only for him to bind her wrists with the silk tie.

"Hey! You—"

"Shh." He covered her mouth, something dangerous glinting in his eyes. "Keep shouting, and I’ll throw you out for everyone to see how the Mrs. Roscente looks half-dressed at midnight."

Her eyes widened.

Was this man... actually a psychopath?