The Secret Heiress | ✔️

15 | 𝙻𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛

☘︎ Lʏᴋᴀs Vɪᴛᴀʟʟɪs ☘︎

Something was wrong.

Jennifer had been frozen in time, lost in a daze within herself standing there. Her features had gone pale, staring at something past my shoulders.

I had almost turned around to scan what it was, but then she'd excused herself and rushed away, squeezing past the singing and dancing bodies as if she couldn't stand to be here.

I'd waited, telling myself she'd just gone to the rest room. That I'd imagined the haunted look she'd sported before she bolted from the crowd.

But it didn't work. Because right now, here I am, searching the whole 600 feet yacht like a madman on a hunt for a certain tall brunette with the deepest green eyes.

I even charmed a girl into asking whether she could check the ladies washroom for Jennifer but the girl just said there was no one there.

I shouldn't care. It shouldnt bother me. But I couldn't help myself.

A strange spike of uneasiness sweeps my body, as I raid through the many rooms, luxury resting, partying and shopping areas and shiny mini-bars, only to find her nowhere.

As my footsteps carry me to the only final location she could be at if she's still in the yacht, a hard body collides with mine on my way in the corridors. My eyes sweep up to meet the soft brown eyes of a well-built man in a clown's costume.

Tilting my head in momentary confusion, I'm about to ask him what he's doing here when he raises his hand in a comedic surrender gesture.

"Booked here for entertainment." He explains joyously.

I manage a polite smile and a nod, knowing there were many event performers invited for entertainment for the party.

"Thanks, man." I pat his shoulder in appreciation, "I'll leave you to it then."

With a last look over my shoulder at the clown who smiles widely and waves at me in farewell, I walk past him towards where I was headed.

***

The store room's door is left slightly ajar and for a moment, hope grips me with a tinge of confusion on why she would be here of all places if she indeed is inside.

Nevertheless, I push open the door, popping my head through the gap to do a quick scan of the store room.

Large pipes and iron shelves holding emergency water-landing supplies shroud each nook and cranny of the crammed space. With the light next to non-existent and the smell of concentrated chlorine lingering in the air, I don't even doubt anyone would willingly be in this place.

I almost shut the door back, but that's when I spot her. If I wasn't so fixated on each of her features all the damn time, I'd have mistaken her to be someone else.

Because no one would've ever expected the fiery, confident Jennifer Ryson to be crouched in a corner with her knees bent upto her chin. Her arms are wrapped around her folded legs in a halo, a veil of thick wavy hair hiding her face burried between her kneecaps.

The uneasiness from earlier gives rise to a foreign sense of worry. I get inside the store room and shut the door behind me.

I see Jennifer's form stiffen at the sound, hear the sharp intake of her breath as her arms tighten around her legs.

When I'm standing in front of her, towering her crouched form on the floor, "Ryson?" I call out faintly.

Jennifer freezes, her limbs tightening around herself with forceful tension, as if she fears what she might do if she let go, "Get away." Her voice is barely a whisper.