Chapter 164

In the wake of the elevator's malfunction, Anthony found himself escorting Layla up the stairwell.

The staircase was shrouded in darkness, with only a thin sliver of light managing to pierce through the gloom. The air hung heavy and still, punctuated only by the sound of their breaths echoing in the confined space.

"I apologize for the inconvenience," Layla said, her voice echoing softly in the dimly lit staircase. "We'll have to descend these stairs soon."

Anthony merely shrugged, his fatigue seemingly non-existent in her presence. "It's alright," he assured her, his voice steady and calm.

"Be careful," Layla warned, her voice tinged with concern. "These stairs are quite steep." No sooner had the words left her mouth than she stumbled, her foot missing a step. Anthony reacted swiftly, his arms encircling her waist from behind, preventing her from falling. His height advantage allowed him to catch her easily, and as her lips brushed against his cheek, a jolt of electricity coursed through him, igniting a wave of heat that spread through his body.

Caught in the throes of her own shock, Layla remained oblivious to the tension that gripped Anthony. His body stiffened, his heart pounded, and he was acutely aware of his reaction. Embarrassment washed over him, but he found solace in the cover of darkness.

Brushing off the sweat from her brow, Layla suggested, "Let's continue."

After a grueling ascent of numerous flights, they finally emerged from the stairwell.

Layla was drenched in sweat, her cheeks flushed from the exertion. She turned to Anthony, her eyes widening at the sight of his crimson face. "Why are you so red?" she asked, her voice laced with concern. It was as if he had indulged in too much alcohol.

"I'm not sure," Anthony responded, his voice shaky. He felt lightheaded, as if he had been subjected to an intense heat, a fire that seemed to burn from within him, yearning for release.

"Thank you for tonight. Goodnight," Layla bid him, beginning to close her door. However, Anthony's hand shot out, halting the door mid-swing. His eyes were bloodshot, his breath labored, and he wore an expression of pain.

"May I... have a glass of water?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Layla was taken aback by his appearance, but after a moment's hesitation, she stepped aside to let him in.

"Please, have a seat. I'll fetch you some water," she offered.

When she returned, she found Anthony's suit jacket discarded on the floor, his hand tugging at his collar to reveal a worryingly red neck.

"Anthony?" she called out, her voice filled with concern.

As he turned to face her, she gasped at the sight of his face, now an even deeper shade of red, pulsating as if filled with blood. It was a sight that sent chills down her spine.

"Anthony, are you alright? Do you have a fever?" Layla steeled herself and reached out to touch his forehead. But before she could make contact, Anthony seized her wrist.

"What are you doing-ah..." Layla's words were cut short as she found herself pinned onto the couch by his overwhelming presence.

She braced herself for an impending kiss, quickly turning her face away. But instead, his hot lips found her ear, his breath heavy and intimidating. "I've been... drugged..."

This wasn't his first experience with such a situation. Anthony bit down on his lip, the pain serving as a lifeline to maintain a semblance of clarity.

Drugged?

Layla's heart pounded in her chest, her mind racing. "What should we do? Should I call 911?"

"It won't help," he replied, his voice strained.

"Then what should we do? Can you get up? You're... you're crushing me..." Layla's voice wavered, her fear palpable as she struggled beneath him.

Her movements only served to increase the friction between them, pushing Anthony's self-control to its limits. He yearned for her, his desire growing with each passing second.

But he shook his head, refusing to give in to his urges. She was innocent, scared, and he couldn't bear to take advantage of her in such a state. He summoned the last vestiges of his self-control.

"Where's the bathroom?" he asked, his voice barely audible.

"Over... over there..." Layla managed to stammer out.

With great effort, Anthony pushed himself off the couch, stumbling towards the bathroom. His vision blurred, and he knocked over a chair in his disoriented state.

"Anthony..." Layla called out, her voice filled with worry as she hurried after him.

But he held up a hand, his gaze intense as he warned her, "No matter what you hear, don't come in."

With that, he slammed the door shut behind him, the sound echoing in the silent apartment. He turned on the shower, letting the cold water wash over him in an attempt to quell the fire within.

From outside the bathroom, Layla could hear the sounds of objects hitting the floor and Anthony's pained breaths. She paced anxiously, but heeded his warning and refrained from entering. She waited for over two hours, her heart pounding with worry.

When the noise finally ceased, she used a spare key to unlock the door. Inside, she found Anthony lying on the bathroom floor, soaked and unconscious.

As dawn broke, the intrusive sunlight pierced through Anthony's eyelids, instigating a throbbing pain in his head. Instinctively, he shielded his face from the harsh light, granting himself a moment to adjust before slowly lifting his heavy eyelids.

Surveying his surroundings, he found himself in a tiny room, sprawled on a full-sized bed with his legs dangling off the edge. Disoriented, he questioned his whereabouts and how he ended up there.

Groaning in discomfort, Anthony propped himself up, pinching the bridge of his nose as fragmented memories flashed through his mind.

A stairwell. A hand on a door.

He had pinned Layla on the couch, his face flushed with blood.

The recollections hit him hard, draining the color from his face.

Glancing down, he realized he was clad only in his underwear. He hadn't done anything to her, had he?

With a start, Anthony rose and ventured into the small, cozy living room, which was filled with the tantalizing aroma of cooking. He slowed his steps, halting at the kitchen doorway.

Layla was there, her back to him, effortlessly preparing pasta. She wore a SpongeBob apron and exuded a sense of warmth and comfort that no other woman had ever given him.

At twenty-five, Anthony hadn't given much thought to family life. Yet, having grown up in a loving home, he was a traditional man at heart, yearning for a respectful partnership and a wife to bring that sense of "home."

"You're awake," Layla turned and bumped into Anthony's chest, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

Anthony was lean, lacking the muscular build of his friend Samuel, but his skin was fair, a porcelain tone that often made women envious. Tall and well-proportioned, his muscles were toned but not overly bulky.

"Sorry, that was rude of me," Anthony's pale cheeks flushed slightly. It was his first time standing in front of a girl in nothing but his underwear, and he felt a pang of awkwardness.

Layla set a plate on the table and handed him a shirt, "Your shirt's thin and it's dry. The jacket's still damp. I'll have the driver bring you some clothes later."

"Thanks." Anthony pulled on the shirt, his long, bare legs still exposed. "Come on, breakfast is ready."

"Thank you," Anthony sat down and picked up a fork, feeling an uncomfortable gnawing in his gut. "You eat tomatoes, right?"

"Yeah." In truth, Anthony wasn't fond of tomatoes, but he couldn't deny her culinary skills. The sweet and tangy taste of the homemade tomato dish was pleasantly surprising. But his mind was elsewhere.

"About last night..." Anthony barely managed to start before trailing off. It was rare for him to be at a loss for words.

"In a nutshell," Layla blurted, "you were drugged, locked yourself in the bathroom, and tried to flush it out with cold water. By the time I found you, you had passed out."

Anthony breathed a sigh of relief, grateful he hadn't done anything regrettable to her; he would never have forgiven himself. "I'm sorry, I must have scared you."

Layla nodded slightly, "It was a bit frightening." Sheltering a man who'd been drugged was inevitably daunting. If he had decided to overstep, she would've been powerless to stop him. Fortunately, Anthony was a gentleman, able to maintain control in such a state and avoid a disaster.

The one who drugged him... could it have been Sarah?