Called Off the Wedding, Left Him Bankrupt novel Chapter 87

Benedict had barely pulled up to the gates of Southcourt Apartments when a security officer flagged him down.

Throughout the inspection, his face remained a mask of icy indifference.

He was escorted to the hospital for a blood test.

Thankfully, he hadn't drunk much that evening—just enough to dull the edge, but not enough to qualify as driving under the influence.

Even so, the penalty was stiff: his license would be suspended for six months, and he'd have to pay a hefty fine.

Earlier, when he'd tried to explain his credentials, the officer barely glanced at him, as if he'd known all along exactly who was under investigation.

His assistant, Frank, came to pick him up and handled the paperwork for the fine.

Benedict walked out of the station with a stormy expression. No sooner had he slid into the passenger seat than he spoke, his voice cold and clipped.

"Find out if someone tipped them off about me."

Frank nodded. "Yes, sir."

Benedict's gaze was fixed on the night beyond the window, his brows drawn tight. But after a pause, he shook his head, his voice low.

"Forget it."

Frank looked puzzled but didn't press the matter.

Benedict rubbed his forehead, his voice dropping even lower. "Keep an eye on Cynthia. I want to know everything she does for the next few days."

Frank hesitated. "You think Miss Tremaine turned you in?"

It wouldn't be out of character for her, not if it meant keeping him from bothering her again.

Cynthia knew him well enough; she understood he'd never swallow his pride and plead with her in front of others.

Benedict didn't answer, and Frank didn't ask again. He drove on in silence, more certain than ever that it was time to start looking for another job.

This time, Frank didn't bother to ask where Benedict wanted to go—he simply took him straight back to Southcourt Apartments.

When they arrived at the curb, Frank parked and got out to open the door.

"We're here, Mr. Shepard."

Benedict, who'd spent the drive with his eyes closed, opened them to see the familiar facade of Southcourt Apartments. His expression darkened.

These days, everyone around him just assumed this was where he belonged—as if Giselle's place was his real home now.

He sat there, face set, not moving to get out.

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