"Stay in there. No matter what happens outside, do not come out." Alia released the heavy wooden handle of the closet door, hearing the latch click into place. She turned around, her bare feet sinking into the plush carpet as she walked back into the center of the living room.
She quickly shrugged off the heavy white bathrobe, letting it drop to the floor. She grabbed a discarded oversized men's dress shirt from the armchair and pulled it on, leaving the top three buttons undone. She walked toward the entryway, her breathing steady.
Just as she reached the foyer, the electronic lock on the heavy mahogany door beeped sharply. The sound of a keycard being forced through the reader was followed by a loud, aggressive shove.
The door flew open. The harsh, fluorescent light from the hallway spilled into the dim suite, bringing with it a chaotic stampede of footsteps and the suppressed, eager whispers of a crowd.
Cherri rushed in first. Her face was twisted into a mask of exaggerated panic. "Alia! Are you in here? Please tell me you did not do anything stupid!"
Right behind her, a pack of five gossip reporters pushed their way inside. They held heavy cameras and microphones, their lenses scanning the room like hungry predators. The flashbulbs erupted, turning the living room into a blinding strobe light show.
Alia took two steps back, raising her hands to shield her face as if terrified by the sudden intrusion. She let her knees buckle slightly, collapsing onto the edge of the velvet sofa, her shoulders trembling.
Cherri spotted Alia sitting there, wearing nothing but a men's shirt, her hair a messy tangle. A flash of pure, malicious joy lit up Cherri's eyes.
"Oh my god, Alia! What... what are you doing here? Who is the man?" Cherri gasped loudly, covering her mouth with both hands in a theatrical display of shock.
The reporters smelled blood. They swarmed the sofa, shoving their microphones dangerously close to Alia's face.
"Miss Stanton, are you engaging in illegal transactions in this hotel?" A reporter with thick glasses shouted over the clicking cameras.
Alia kept her head down. Her shoulders shook violently, presenting the perfect image of a broken, weeping woman. Beneath the shadow of her hair, her lips curled into a cold, hard sneer.
Cherri stepped in front of the cameras, playing the protective sister while pouring gasoline on the fire. "Stop filming her! My sister must have been forced! She would never do something so dirty!"
Cherri spun around, her eyes darting across the room, searching for the hidden lover. Her gaze locked onto the closed doors of the walk-in closet.
"Is that bastard hiding in there? I am calling the police to have him arrested!" Cherri marched toward the closet, reaching out to grab the handle.
Alia's eyes turned lethal. She tensed her leg muscles, preparing to intercept her.
Before Cherri could touch the door, a deafening crash echoed from the terrace. The heavy glass sliding door connecting the suite to the adjacent balcony was violently shoved open.
A gust of night wind swept into the stuffy room. Everyone froze, turning their heads toward the sudden noise.
Caitlyn Kensington stepped into the suite. She wore a striking red haute couture trench coat and five-inch stilettos. She tossed her long hair over her shoulder, flanked by two massive men in black suits. She walked in with the absolute dominance of a queen inspecting her subjects.
"Call the police? Go ahead. I would love to see who dares to touch my people." Caitlyn's voice was a whip cracking through the silence.
The reporters instantly recognized the heir to the Kensington family. She was a top-tier socialite no one in the media dared to cross. The cameras were slowly lowered, the reporters exchanging nervous glances.
All the color drained from Cherri's face. She had meticulously planned this, and Caitlyn's appearance was a catastrophic variable.
"Caitlyn... what are you doing here?" Cherri stammered, her voice shaking.
Caitlyn walked over to the sofa, positioning herself protectively in front of Alia. She looked down at Cherri, her eyes filled with utter disgust.
"I came to pick up my best friend. She just finished a grueling audition and needed a place to rest. Do I need to report my schedule to a stepdaughter?" Caitlyn's sarcasm cut deep.
The reporters shifted uncomfortably. The narrative was changing rapidly. This was no longer a sex scandal; it was turning into a vicious catfight between high-society heirs.
Cherri refused to give up. She pointed a trembling finger at the oversized shirt Alia was wearing. "An audition? Then how do you explain the men's clothes?"
Caitlyn let out a sharp laugh. She picked up a glass of ice water from the coffee table and, without a second of hesitation, threw the freezing liquid directly into Cherri's face.
The ice cubes hit Cherri's cheek. She shrieked, stumbling backward as the water ruined her flawless makeup, leaving dark streaks of mascara running down her chin.
"That shirt belongs to my fiancé. Alia spilled coffee on her dress and borrowed it. Do you have a problem with that?" Caitlyn lied with breathtaking confidence, her tone dripping with arrogance.
Behind the closet door, Ansel stood perfectly still. He raised an eyebrow, a flicker of genuine amusement crossing his dark eyes at the Kensington heir's sheer audacity.
The reporters were completely paralyzed. The fiancé of the Kensington heir. They would rather jump off the Brooklyn Bridge than print a word implying he was involved in a cheap hotel scandal.
Alia slowly stood up from the sofa. She wiped away a drop of physiological tear from the corner of her eye. She locked her cold gaze onto the screaming Cherri. The counterattack was about to begin.
