Chapter 57: Julian Cross Sprang Up from the Couch

"Changed your mind?" Julian Cross sprang up from the couch. "Finally dropping the saint act?"

Grant Holloway didn't even grace him with a glance.

"Just a fling. Not my first."

Julian grinned, clapping loudly. "That's more like it! I'll set it up—clean and simple."

Within five minutes of hanging up, an address popped up on Grant's phone.

Crown Club, Room 1080

Been watching this one. Still untouched. Lucky you.

Grant scoffed, grabbing his jacket as he strode out.

The night was ink-black. Pleasure waited for no one.

By noon the next day, Julian emerged from the adjacent suite, rubbing his temples.

He'd drunk himself into a stupor and slept till midday.

As the Cross heir, he kept a permanent presidential suite in the family hotel—sprawling enough to fit three average apartments.

Pouring himself a glass of red wine, he shuffled toward the living room.

The moment he pushed the door open, a woman's robed back came into view. Red marks dotted her exposed shoulders and neck.

She turned toward Grant with tear-filled eyes, only for the man to coldly toss a wad of cash at her before dismissing her.

Grant glanced up, meeting Julian's amused gaze, and leisurely lit a cigarette.

"Damn, she was about to cry," Julian tutted. "No mercy at all?"

Grant exhaled smoke. "Payment settled. No need for theatrics."

"Fair." Julian swirled his wine. "Join me?"

"Pass."

Only a drunk like Julian would drink this early.

Wreathed in smoke, Grant's expression remained detached—no trace of post-indulgence satisfaction.

Julian leaned in. "Out all night. Won’t Clara Whitmore come looking?"

Grant's brow twitched. "What is she to me? Since when does she dictate my life?"

Tch.

Still not reconciled.

"Then why not Paige Lawson?" Julian waggled his eyebrows. "Fresh grass right there, yet you go picking wildflowers?"

That girl had curves and looks—maybe not Clara’s elegance, but youth had its charms.

Grant blew a smoke ring. "Good girls mean trouble."

"Wasn’t Clara a good girl too?" Julian smirked. "The type to cling forever."

Grant’s fingers stilled. "Took six years to shake her off."

Julian burst out laughing.

"Classic Grant Holloway."