Upon waking up again, Isabella Weaver was already in the clubhouse.
Her clothes were intact, her hair neatly arranged, and her backpack was safely by her side. The sun was still high in the sky, indicating that not much time had passed.
The cold, unapproachable man had one hand tucked into his pants pocket, while the other held a phone. He stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, speaking on the phone with his back to her.
Isabella had been working at the clubhouse for a month, responsible for cleaning the rooms. This suite was the best-located and the most expensive of all the rooms.
Booked six months in advance, it boasted an excellent floor, an unobstructed view, luxurious and expensive decor, and 24-hour professional butler service—all of which highlighted the noble status of the occupant.
The sunlight seemed particularly good today, yet no matter how dazzling it was, it couldn't outshine the man.
He stood there in suit and tie, and without needing to turn around, he induced immense pressure on Isabella.
She slowly stood up from the sofa, backpack on her shoulders, and moved quietly towards the door.
However, the man seemed to have eyes on his back. Just as she moved about a meter, his indifferent voice rang out in the air, "Isabella Weaver, where are you going?"
Startled by being called out, Isabella was shocked. How did he know her name?
"Connor!"
"Young Master!"
Connor pushed the door open and entered, holding a white towel. He was still smiling, appearing like a warm and harmless boy-next-door, easily making people drop their guard.
Upon seeing him, Isabella stepped back several paces. She didn't like that smile!
There must be something wrong with that white towel too. Many news reports exposed criminals using drugs to knock girls out!
Connor seemed completely oblivious to her repulsion, smiling broadly as he amicably asked, "Miss Weaver, would you like some fruit?"
"No."
She'd be crazy to dare eat anything he offered.
"Then sit for a while longer, my young master is a little busy. He doesn't mean to neglect you; actually, he's very nice, so don't worry."
Nice person?
Isabella couldn't agree.
Looking at Connor's big white teeth and white towel, she realized she had already missed the best time to escape, and slowly sat back on the sofa.
Connor seemed very pleased with her understanding of the situation. Not only did he serve her fruit, but he also poured her warm water, thoughtful and meticulous.
Yet, the more he acted like this, the more Isabella felt he resembled Milo Field, and wanted to leave this place.
In comparison, the indifferent Harry Hunter made her feel somewhat more comfortable—at least he was genuine and not pretending.
Harry took over a dozen calls in succession. By the last one, his tone was already quite impatient.
"I know, stop nagging!"
"No time!"
"Don't need it!"
"I have it!"
...
He said a few words, and then walked directly over to Isabella, sitting down next to her.
The soft sofa slightly sagged, and the man's presence was overwhelming, making Isabella instinctively want to move aside.
But a strong hand landed on her shoulder, holding her in place, cutting off her intention.
The next second, Harry's deep voice resounded, "Call me Daddy!"
What?!
Isabella looked at that cold and handsome face in bewilderment!
Appearing dignified and aloof, seemingly uninterested in earthly matters, how could he have such a fetish?
"Call me quickly!"
His deep voice carried a hint of warning, tinged with a touch of danger.
Isabella's face gradually turned pale. Could she have been mistaken, was this man actually a pervert?
She bit her lip, refusing to speak. She has a father!