Fake Date, Real Fate-Chapter 177: Pick Her or Me

Cameron stepped in first, flanked by Gray and two security backups—one male, one female in an evening gown that looked far too glamorous for the holster she barely concealed at her side.

Clara froze under my grip. My palm still pressed against her jaw, but my body trembled—not with rage now, but with restraint. The fever in my blood was still burning, distorting everything.

Cameron’s voice sliced through the heat and chaos like a blade. "Adrien. Let her go."

My jaw clenched. I didn’t move.

"She’s not going anywhere," Cameron added, stepping closer, hands visible. "We need her to talk. You’re burning up. Let Gray get you out of here. Let us handle this."

Clara twisted in my grip. "Adrien, don’t listen to them—"

I slowly loosened my hold, backing away like I was coming off a ledge. My head spun. The warmth in my blood surged and dipped, like I was falling through waves of heat. I could barely breathe.

But I turned to her again, my voice low and heavy with exhaustion. "Where is she?"

Clara hesitated. Her lips parted, as if she still wanted to play innocent.

"Where is Isabella?" I said again, sharp and cold.

Clara’s lips parted. She looked between me and Cameron, her pupils wide, her hands trembling. Then, slowly—her expression cracked.

"I gave her a keycard," she whispered. "Suite 14B. It’s on the next floor, east wing. But—" she broke off, breath hitching, "you might already be too late."

The words hit like a bullet to the ribs.

I didn’t speak. I didn’t curse. I just nodded once and turned toward the door.

"She’s not alone," Cameron said behind me, already switching to command mode. "Gray, you’re with us. Jo, bubby—stay with Clara. Restrain if needed."

"Copy," Jo murmured, stepping forward.

But just as I reached the threshold, Clara’s voice shrieked after me.

"Wait—wait! Adrien, please—don’t leave me!"

I turned halfway just in time to see her grab a steak knife off the table. It gleamed in the soft light, too delicate to look threatening—until she held it to her throat.

"Pick," she hissed, tears spilling hot and fast. "Pick her or me—or I swear to God, Adrien, I’ll end it right here!"

Time stopped.

Cameron’s hand twitched. Gray stepped instinctively forward.

But I didn’t panic.

I stared at her, and for a fleeting moment, sadness tightened my chest. The girl who once followed me through gardens barefoot now stood before me, shaking and broken.

"Put it down, Clara," I said softly.

Her hand trembled, chin lifting in defiance. "If you walk out that door, I’ll do it. I swear I’ll do it. You will love me—you have to!"

Cameron took a half-step forward, his voice a low, placating rumble. "Clara, put the knife down."

"She’s not even one of us!" she sobbed. "You and I—we’re the same! We belong together. I’ve waited so long for you to see it. And now she’s ruining everything!"

"Don’t you care?" Clara cried harder, pressing the blade until a thin line of red welled up. "Adrien, look at me! I’ll do it!"

I took a step toward her, then another. The world swayed, a nauseating lurch, but my eyes never left hers. The drug in my system was a ravenous beast, but my fury was its master.

"Do it," I said. My voice was eerily calm, stripped of all emotion except a chilling finality.

Her eyes widened, knife wavering. "What...?"

"I said do it," I repeated, stopping a few feet from her. "Go on, Clara. You want my attention? You’ve got it. Let’s see how committed you are."

Her face crumpled. "You don’t mean that."

"Every second you waste with this pathetic theater," I leaned forward, my voice dropping to a venomous whisper, "is another second I’m not with her. Another second she might be in danger because of you. So if you’re going to do it, do it now. Or get the hell out of my way."

That broke her. With a guttural scream of pure anguish, she didn’t press the knife in. She lunged. Not at her own throat, but at me.

It was a clumsy, telegraphed move born of rage and despair. Before she’d closed half the distance, the woman, Jo, moved with startling speed. She pivoted, deflecting Clara’s arm with one hand while her other hand chopped down hard on Clara’s wrist. The knife clattered to the floor. In the same fluid motion, Jo twisted Clara’s arm behind her back and slammed her face-first against the wall.

Clara screamed and fought, tears streaking her flushed cheeks. And then—she laughed.

The moment Jo slammed Clara into the wall, I was already moving.

The door flew open under my arm with a loud crack. I didn’t wait for the others.

The hallway outside stretched like something out of a dream—too narrow, too saturated. The lights overhead pulsed too bright, each bulb blooming like heat behind my eyes. My skin was crawling. My suit itched. My blood felt like it was made of steam.

Suite 14B. End of the hall. Golden serpent handle.

The need in me wasn’t exhaustion—it was raw, urgent pressure. Not toward her. Toward Isabella. To see her. Touch her. Tear down whatever stood between us and make sure she was still breathing.

I heard Gray’s voice behind me, sharp and controlled. "Jo—get Clara cuffed. Bubby, stay. Cameron—"

But I was already at a sprint. Each step hit the ground too hard, each breath shallow and sharp. The closer I got, the more wrong everything felt. The carpet underfoot was too plush, the air too warm. My hands itched to grab something—someone—and burn this urgency out of my system.

And then I saw it.

The serpent glinted at the end like a lure in water.

My heart pounded loud in my ears—too loud. I didn’t slow down. I didn’t reach for the keycard.

I rammed my shoulder into the door. Once.

THUD.

It didn’t give.

From inside—I swear—I heard a muffled noise. A voice? A movement? My brain couldn’t parse it, only that it wasn’t hers.

I reeled back again.

THUD.

Harder. Louder. Something cracked.

Then Cameron’s voice just behind me: "Adrien—wait—step back—"

I did.

"Gray!" Cameron barked behind me. "Breach kit—now."

Gray didn’t hesitate. He shouldered past me, a compact breaching ram appearing in his hands as if from thin air. It wasn’t a battering ram; it was smaller, more precise, designed for locks and hinges. He set the prongs against the jamb, right beside the serpent handle.

"Clear!" he grunted.

Cameron yanked me back by the collar of my jacket, a sharp, non-negotiable pull. "Hold, Adrien. Hold."

The command was a chain, but the beast in my blood strained against it. I watched, my body vibrating with a need so intense it was a physical agony.

Gray engaged the tool. There was a high-pitched hydraulic whine, followed by a sickening crunch of splintering wood and shearing metal. The door groaned, popped, and swung inward a few inches with a final, defeated crack.

That was all the opening I needed.

I broke Cameron’s hold like it was paper. He swore behind me, but I was already through the breach, a blur of motion fueled by fever and dread.

And then—

I ran into hell.