Too Late Mr. Noble: You Can't Afford Me

The bass thumped in Elle's chest, syncing with her heartbeat. She danced, letting the music wash away the thinking part of her brain. Men approached, drawn like moths to the silver flame of her dress. She pushed them away with a smile, spinning out of reach.

She felt free. Or at least, she was acting free.

Up on the mezzanine, Hunt hadn't blinked in five minutes. He tracked her movement through the crowd.

He saw Lance Ford weaving through the dancers, two cocktails in his hands.

Hunt set his glass down on the table with a thack.

Lance intercepted Elle near the edge of the dance floor. He said something. Elle shook her head, turning away.

Lance persisted. He stepped into her path. As a waiter squeezed past them with a tray of sparklers, creating a distraction, Lance's hand hovered over the drink in his left hand.

It was a subtle movement. A flick of the wrist. A pinch of white powder falling into the glass.

From the floor, it was invisible.

From the balcony, it was clear as day.

Hunt's blood turned to ice. He shoved the table aside, ignoring the crash of glassware.

"Noble?" one of the bankers shouted.

Hunt vaulted over the back of the booth and sprinted for the stairs.

Downstairs, Elle was thirsty. The dancing had left her parched.

Lance smiled apologetically. "My bad. Just let me buy you a water. Or this... lemonade?"

He held out the drink.

Elle hesitated. She looked for Bree, but the crowd had swallowed her. She was hot, tired, and her throat was dry.

"Fine," she said. "Thanks."

She took the glass. She drank half of it in one long swallow.

Three minutes later, the world tilted.

The lights started to smear, turning into long, neon ribbons. Her knees felt like they were made of cotton.

"Whoa there," Lance's voice sounded distorted, like he was speaking underwater. He wrapped an arm around her waist. "You had too much. Let's get you some air."

"No," Elle mumbled. Her tongue felt too big for her mouth. "Bree..."

"Bree's outside," Lance lied smoothly. He started dragging her toward the side exit, the one that led to the attached hotel elevators.

Elle tried to dig her heels in, but her legs wouldn't obey. Panic flared in her chest, cold and sharp, but she couldn't scream. Her voice was a whisper.

"Stop..."

Lance pushed the door open. The hallway was quieter. The elevator bank was just ahead.

"Almost there, sweetheart," Lance grunted, shifting his grip to haul her dead weight.

He reached for the elevator button.

A hand clamped onto his wrist. A hand that felt like a steel vice.

Lance spun around.

Hunt Noble stood there. His chest was heaving, his tie gone, his eyes black holes of rage.

"Let. Her. Go."

Lance tried to laugh, but it came out as a squeak. "Hunt? Hey. She's wasted. She asked me to take her upstairs. Don't be a cockblock."

Elle lifted her head. Through the blur, she saw a dark figure. A familiar scent-sandalwood and cold air-hit her.

"Help..." she whimpered.

The sound snapped the last thread of Hunt's control.

He didn't speak. He pulled back his fist and drove it into the center of Lance's face.

There was a wet, sickening crunch of cartilage.

Lance dropped Elle. He flew backward, slamming into the elevator doors, blood exploding from his nose.