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Chapter_47
Whitney?
Monica’s mind reeled.
Was she not supposed to be in the lounge? Why was she sitting here, calm and composed?
And, more importantly, whose heated moans were echoing from the room beyond?
Monica’s lips twitched. She caught Whitney’s icy smirk but had no time to react—Faith was already storming forward, kicking the lounge door open.
Inside, dim lighting barely concealed the scandalous scene—Troy was drunkenly tangled with two women on the couch. His shirt was flung open, lips hungrily trailing over them. One woman seemed to resist playfully, while the other clung to him with abandon.
Faith’s fury erupted. “You two sluts! Seducing my brother?! Whitney, get out here—wait, where is Whitney?”
Her hands flew to the women’s faces, flipping them over, only to freeze in shock. “Roselyn? Monica, isn’t this your bestie? And Stella—the hotshot celebrity?”
Faith’s expression darkened as she turned on Monica. “Aren’t these your so-called classy friends? Oh, I see—you tried to frame Whitney, but it turns out your own besties are the ones in Troy’s bed!”
Stella’s face drained of color. She had come at Gunner’s invitation, expecting a private rendezvous, only to find herself locked in the room.
“It wasn’t me! I don’t even like Troy—I have a boyfriend!” Stella’s voice trembled as she turned to Monica, silently pleading for help.
Monica, still standing near the door, was blindsided. She had orchestrated this entire scheme to disgrace Whitney—to have Faith catch Whitney and Troy together and give her a thorough beating.
But now?
Her own best friends were exposed instead.
A sense of impending doom loomed over her. She barely had time to react before Simon approached, his voice grave. “What’s going on here?”
Faith spun toward him, seething. “Your precious girlfriend tried to set up Whitney, but it backfired. Stella might be innocent, but what about your best friend Roselyn? She’s utterly shameless, just like Monica!”
Simon’s expression darkened. He turned to Monica. “Is this true? Were you scheming against Whitney?”
“No, Simon! I would never hurt her!” Monica pleaded, eyes brimming with fake innocence.
But this time, Simon wasn’t buying it.
Faith was the one revealing the truth, and the evidence was undeniable. Monica was not as fragile and pure as he had believed. Without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving her to deal with the mess she had created.
Faith, however, was not finished. She grabbed Roselyn, yanked her forward, and shoved her into the hallway, her voice echoing through the hotel. “Let everyone see what a shameless little tramp she is! Monica, did you send her? Simon, what’s your game? Trying to charm your way into the Perlman family inheritance? I’ll be telling Grandpa about this—and your mother, Phebe, won’t escape unscathed either!”
Monica turned ghostly pale. She had only wanted to ruin Whitney’s reputation, but now she had fallen into her own trap.
Roselyn, humiliated, clung to Monica’s legs, tears streaming down her face. “Monica, please, help me! I was wrong—I got confused! Please, explain to Faith, save me!”
Monica sneered, kicking Roselyn away. “How could I save you when you’re so despicable? I never taught you to be this low. Don’t drag me down with you!”
Faith smirked as she watched Roselyn collapse, her humiliation immortalized by onlookers’ mocking laughter.
From a quiet corner, Whitney clapped her hands lightly and rose from her seat.
Monica had tried to sabotage her before the competition results were even out.
Well, Whitney didn’t mind turning the tables.
Roselyn’s friendship with Monica was ruined. With a little push, that hatred could become a useful weapon for Whitney in the future. And Stella? She wouldn’t escape the fallout either.
Monica wanted to sow discord among her enemies?
Whitney would return the favor.
The next day, after lunch, the villa’s landline rang.
Taryn answered before turning to Whitney. “Madam, Sir has sent a driver. He’d like you to visit his office.”
Whitney arched a brow. “What for?”
Natalie, listening from the staircase, grinned knowingly and disappeared into the closet, emerging with an elegant suit dress. “Doll yourself up, sweetheart. Outshine the other women in his office. With your natural beauty, this pink will suit you perfectly.”
The old lady was sharp—she had already pieced together the situation the night before.
Meanwhile, Whitney pondered a different matter entirely.
Was she finally about to uncover L’s true identity?
A frisson of excitement coursed through her. The moment the chauffeur arrived, she stepped into the car without hesitation.
The Bentley wove through the city, stopping at a nondescript office building. The assistant led her to the 28th floor, where various companies had set up shop—clearly a shared business space.
Then, she entered a seemingly ordinary office.
Behind the glass desk, a man sat, his crisp suit tailored to perfection, his posture emanating power even beneath the mask he always wore.
A single document lay in front of him, as if hastily placed for effect.
Whitney’s gaze landed on his crossed legs, her voice tinged with disbelief. “L, is this really your office?”
