The Billionaire’s Secret Quartet



"Alright, let's crash here," Hertha mumbled, barely able to keep her eyes open at the mention of a hotel, longing for rest. Without even glancing at which hotel it was, she trudged toward the entrance.

Reaching the front desk, Alaric pulled out his ID and handed it to the receptionist, "We need a room."

As the receptionist took Alaric's ID, her gaze lingered on his face, a shy, girlish smile playing on her lips, bashful yet full of longing.

Hertha, though exhausted, couldn't help but notice the receptionist's smitten demeanor. It was as if she saw pink, heart-shaped bubbles popping in the air around her, her adoration almost tangible.

Hertha knew that look all too well, having been in those shoes herself. The first time she laid eyes on Alaric, she was head over heels, caught up in a whirlwind of infatuation.

Now, seeing her past self in the eyes of another, Hertha's fatigue seemed to fade away, replaced by amusement. Smiling, she warned the receptionist, "Miss, don't let his looks deceive you. I was like you once, completely dazzled at first sight. But trust me, the more you get to know him, the more you realize he's not all that."

Her intention was clear: to caution her against falling too hard for Alaric's charm.

Catching Alaric's eye, Hertha saw a hint of hurt in his gaze. Ever since dinner, she sensed his concern over her apparent disapproval, likely due to his past relationships.

But what could he do? His past was his past, and he couldn't change it.

The receptionist, finally shifting her gaze from Alaric, replied innocently to Hertha, "Oh, it's not the first time I've seen Mr. Falconer."

Hertha's brows furrowed in confusion, "What do you mean?"

Her tone was tense, her glare shifting towards Alaric, "Really? Getting around much, aren't you? Is there anyone you haven't charmed?" Her anger was palpable.

The receptionist hurriedly clarified, "No, no, you've got it all wrong. I saw Mr. Falconer for the second time today. The first was three years ago." Her cheeks flushed red in her haste to explain.

"Three years ago?" That term struck a chord with Hertha, a sensitive timeline for them both.

Hertha's eyes, wide and questioning, awaited further explanation.

The receptionist glanced shyly at Alaric before he interjected

impatiently, "Just spit it out. We

don't remember you."

Hertha, already uneasy about his past relationships, found this situation aggravating, especially with another woman expressing fondness for Alaric at such a critical

moment.

Alaric's frustration grew. One unresolved issue after another, how could he not be irritated?

Pressured by their urgency, the receptionist explained, "Three years ago, Mr. Falconer, you were here with her at our hotel. Don't you remember?"

Hertha, puzzled, pointed to herself, "Us? Together? Are you sure you're not mistaking us for someone else?"Têxt © NôvelDrama.Org.

The receptionist looked closely at

Hertha, nodding confidently, " mistake, it was definitely you. You

that's why you don't recall

med quite drunk; maybe