Your Regrets Won't Bring Me Back - Chapter 123: Chapter 123

So the high-and-mighty Simon Whitmore had a fragile side after all.
Snapping out of it, Elena resumed wiping him down—until she glimpsed a bluish mark beneath his shirt.
Curiosity pricked, she slipped the buttons apart for a peek.
A leopard was inked across his chest.
Elena had seen dragons and tigers before, but few people chose a leopard.
Studying it closely, she noticed an old, raised scar hidden beneath the tattoo.
So the leopard was there to conceal the wound.
When she finished, she laid him properly on the bed and pulled the quilt over him.
Checking her phone, she found taxis scarce out here, so she curled up on the sofa in the downstairs living room for the night.
Allure Bar.
Victor Whitmore sat at the counter, several empty bottles already arrayed beside him.
His phone vibrated nonstop, yet he ignored it, slumped over the bar in a drunken haze.
"Another," Victor demanded, shoving his glass forward.
The bartender poured him a fresh measure.
Victor stared into the swirling amber, and, impossibly, Elena Bennett's reflection formed in its depths.
She smiled sweetly. "Brother Victor, why drink so much? Let me make you hangover soup. Brother Victor..."
His lips curved without permission—there was the girl who had always clung to him.
He gave a cold snort, though the smile lingered. "Who wants your soup?"
No sooner had the words left his mouth than the reflection wavered; Elena's face turned icy, merciless.
"Victor Whitmore, you disgust me!"
Eyes widening, he swept the glass off the bar.
Bang!
Shards and liquor scattered everywhere.
Blinking hard, he hammered a fist against his head. Had he gone mad, thinking about Elena?
He snatched up a bottle and drank straight from it.
Then it hit him: their engagement was gone. She wasn't his anymore. He couldn't control her.
At that moment, a hand suddenly seized the bottle.
"Victor, why are you drinking so much?"
Victor Whitmore narrowed his bleary eyes, a faint crease forming between his brows. "Annabelle?"
Annabelle Bennett caught his hand. "I kept calling but you wouldn't answer. I was worried sick. You're drunk—let me take you home so you can sleep."
Supporting him with both arms, she helped him to his feet.
Exhausted, Victor let her steer him forward; the more liquor he'd downed, the heavier the weight in his chest had grown.
After only a few steps Annabelle glanced sideways, studying his expression.
"Victor? Victor?" she called softly.
He was dead drunk, offering not the faintest reply.
Annabelle pressed her lips together. Her career lay in ruins, Sir Whitmore disapproved of her—and if she pushed things to a point of no return with Victor tonight?
With the thought decided, she turned back to the elevators, made for the second-floor guest rooms, and booked one on the spot.
After settling him on the bed, she noticed a faint lipstick stain on the collar of his jacket.
Her eyes flew wide. In a rush, she yanked the garment off him.
Annabelle thought, 'Victor's seeing another woman? No—someone must have thrown herself at him, some scheming tramp!'
Without hesitation, she pulled out her phone and called Victor's assistant.
"Where did President Whitmore go today?" Annabelle asked.
Brian Change answered, "He visited the construction site, but the car broke down halfway and he came back."
"Who went with him?" Annabelle pressed.
"Miss Elena Bennett," came the hesitant reply.
Annabelle's chest tightened at the name—Elena Bennett. Of course it was her!