[BL] Bound to My Enemy: The Billionaire Who Took My Girl-Chapter 135: Stranger

"Noah?" Alex’s voice broke through my spiraling thoughts. "You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?"

"I... I’m sorry, Alex," I whispered, the guilt gnawing at me. He was saying everything "right," offering me the world, but all I wanted was to find the man who had told me I was nothing. I was a mess of conflicting desires and growing dread.

The walls of the ballroom suddenly felt like they were closing in. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t pretend to be in this romantic moment when every instinct I had was screaming that something was rotting beneath the floorboards.

"I... I need to use the restroom again," I said, pulling back from his hold. I went for the most embarrassing, self-deprecating excuse I could think of. "I’m so sorry, I just, I have a really small bladder. The champagne, I guess."

Alex hesitated. His fingers tightened on my waist for a second too long, his eyes narrowing as he searched my face. "Again? Noah, are you feeling alright? You look pale."

"I’m fine, really," I insisted, already backing away toward the edge of the dance floor. "I just need a minute. I’ll be right back."

He reluctantly released me, his hand lingering in the air for a moment. I didn’t wait. I turned and practically bolted through the tables, the relief of escaping the spotlight mixing with a crushing sense of shame.

I pushed through the double doors into the long, marble hallway that led away from the main gala. The air here was cooler, the music of the waltz muffled into a low hum. I leaned against the wall, taking deep, gasping breaths of air that didn’t smell like Alex’s cologne.

I debated just hiding in the bathroom for the rest of the night, but I realized I actually did need to go, the nervous energy had a way of working through my system. I started walking down the dim corridor, my footsteps echoing on the stone.

I was about a minute away from the main ballroom, rounding a sharp corner near a service alcove, when it happened.

BAM.

I didn’t even see the person coming. It was a high-speed, shoulder-to-shoulder impact that knocked the wind out of my lungs. I went flying backward, my hands scraping against the floor as I collapsed.

"Ow... god," I groaned, stars dancing in my vision. I scrambled to get my bearings, pushing myself up onto my elbows.

The person I had hit was also on the floor, panting heavily. I looked up, and my heart dropped into my stomach.

It was her. The reporter.

But she didn’t look like the polished professional I’d seen at the site. Her hair was a wild, tangled mess, and the shoulder of her blazer was torn. She looked terrified, her eyes darting around the hallway like a cornered animal.

Our eyes met, and the shock was mutual.

"You," she wheezed, her voice trembling. "I know you."

"You’re the reporter from the construction site," I said, my voice rising in alarm. "What happened to you? Why are you, "

"You’re with him," she interrupted, her eyes blazing with a sudden, sharp anger as she scrambled backward away from me.

"With who? Cassian?"

"No," she spat, her face contorting. "Alex. I know you’re with Alex Hendrix."

Before I could defend myself, the sound of heavy, rhythmic footsteps began to echo from the far end of the hallway.

"Search every room!" a voice shouted. "She couldn’t have gone far! Find her!"

The woman’s face drained of color, turning a ghostly, sickly white. She looked at the hallway behind her, then at the dead end to our left. She was trapped.

A split-second instinct took over. I didn’t know why she was running, but I knew the look of pure terror when I saw it. I reached out and grabbed her hand.

"Come on!" I hissed.

I pulled her toward the nearest door, the men’s restroom. We burst inside just as the shouting voices grew louder, the heavy thud of boots drawing closer to the corner.

The bathroom was bright and sterile, smelling of industrial lemon. I practically shoved her into the furthest stall.

"Stay quiet," I whispered, my heart hammering against my teeth. "Don’t make a sound. Don’t come out until I tell you."

I closed the stall door just as the main bathroom door swung open with a violent thud. Two men stepped inside. I recognized them immediately, they were the same security guards Alex had left the ballroom with earlier. The same ones who had "escorted" her away.

I stood by the sinks, my hands shaking so hard I had to grip the edge of the marble.

"You see anyone run through here?" one of the men barked, his eyes scanning the stalls.

I played the only card I had: the "stupid, shy assistant." I blinked at them, my voice trembling with genuine nervous energy. "What? No. I’ve been in here alone. Is... is something wrong? Did someone get hurt?"

The men looked at each other, suspicious. One of them started to walk toward the stalls, his hand moving toward the first door.

"The gala... the waltz just ended," I rambled, stepping into his path as if by accident. "I was just, I have a really small bladder. It’s embarrassing. Are you guys security? Is there a fire?"

My sheer awkwardness seemed to throw them off. The guard paused, looking at my expensive suit and my flushed, panicked face. I looked like exactly what I was: a rich man’s neurotic guest.

"Forget it," the other guard grunted. "She probably doubled back to the kitchens. Let’s go."

They turned and marched out, the heavy door swinging shut behind them.

I waited until their footsteps faded into silence before I leaned against the sink and exhaled a breath I felt like I’d been holding for a lifetime.

"They’re gone," I whispered.

The stall door creaked open. The reporter stepped out, and for the first time, under the harsh, unforgiving fluorescent lights of the bathroom, I saw the full extent of the damage.

My breath hitched. There were dark, mottled bruises forming on her cheekbones. Her lower lip was split and swollen, a bead of fresh blood standing out against her pale skin. When she raised her arms to steady herself, I saw the defensive purple welts along her forearms.

"Thank you," she said, her voice barely a thread. "You didn’t have to do that."

"What happened to you?" I asked, my voice trembling with horror. "Who did this? We need to call the police. We need to get you to a hospital."

"No!" she snapped, her eyes widening with panic. She tried to push past me toward the door. "No police. I need to go. I need to get out of this building before they realize I’m not in the vents."

I blocked her path, my hands out in a placating gesture. "Wait, you can’t just leave like this! You’re bleeding. You’re hurt. Let me help you."

"You don’t understand!" she cried, a sob breaking through her voice as she tried to shove me aside. "I need to get out! Now!"

"I can help you," I insisted, grabbing her shoulders to steady her. "Just tell me what happened at the site. Tell me who did this to you!"

She stopped struggling, her eyes boring into mine with a look of profound, jagged pity. "No one can help me, Noah. Not against him. Not in this city."

My stomach dropped. The dread I’d been feeling all night solidified into a cold, hard lump of lead. The question I had been terrified to even think, let alone ask, finally clawed its way up my throat.

"Is it..." my voice was barely a whisper, a ghost of a sound under the buzzing fluorescent lights. "Is it Alex? Did Alex do this to you?"

The silence that followed was the loudest thing I had ever heard.