Page 10 of Forever His Favorite
Now, she wasn’t his anymore.
His fingers clenched so tightly around the phone the veins in his hand bulged, knuckles bone-white. His jaw set, and his glossy, bloodshot eyes hardened with sudden resolve. Without lifting his gaze from the phone, his voice came rough, commanding, as though carved from desperation.
“I need a car. I want to apologize to Emily. Now.”
Dillon froze, his throat bobbing nervously as he hesitated. “Mr. Cantrell, you shouldn’t even be out of bed yet. Moreover… There are some very urgent projects pending. Your absence has already delayed—”
Lucas’s head snapped up, his glare cutting him down like a blade. The raw fury in his eyes made Dillon instinctively step back. “Just get the damn car!” The bark of his voice echoed in the sterile room, silencing even the steady beeping of the monitor in Dillon’s ears.
Swallowing hard, Dillon tried again, cautious, his voice lowered. “Sir… the company is already facing massive losses. Your projects—”
Lucas shoved the blanket aside, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. His movements were shaky, unsteady, but sheer will kept him upright. His arm shot toward the chair, snatching his shirt with forceful precision, tearing the hospital gown off his shoulders. The fabric rustled, his breaths heavy as he shoved his arms through the sleeves.
His glare speared Dillon like a physical blow. “Bring the car to the front. Make all the arrangements. In ten minutes, I’m going to apologize to Emily in a public announcement.”
The finality in his voice left no room for argument. Dillon could only nod stiffly, his mouth dry, before spinning toward the door to carry out the order.
***
Ten minutes later, the car screeched to a halt outside a towering five-star hotel. The entrance was already swarming—sleek black limousines lined the curb, media vans stacked in rows, and floodlights flashed across the night.
Reporters clustered near the doors, their cameras firing in rapid bursts, microphones thrust forward like weapons.
In the front seat, Dillon’s grip tightened on the wheel, his shoulders rigid. Lucas leaned forward, his reflection sharp in the rearview mirror.
“All the media is here?”
“Yes, Mr. Cantrell,” Dillon murmured, stiff with tension.
Without another word, Lucas opened the door and stepped out. The chill night air bit against his skin, but his stride was steady, unflinching. He entered the massive glass doors of the hotel, the quiet luxury of the marble lobby breaking with the sharp sound of his polished shoes against the floor. His hand hovered at the brass handle of the conference room door.
For a single beat, his heart raced—not out of fear of the crowd, but the deeper, gnawing dread: ‘Would Emily forgive me?’
Then, the doors swung open.
A heavy silence crashed over the room, cameras exploding in flashes like lightning. Reporters shifted forward, pens poised, whispers cutting through the air in quick bursts. Lucas’s tall frame cut through the space as he strode toward the podium, his gaze sweeping over the sea of faces.
The questions came in a torrent.
“Mr. Cantrell, you haven’t been well recently—is it true?”
“Mr. Cantrell, are the rumors correct? Are you the ex-boyfriend Miss Crawford mentioned in her post?”
“Are you still with Miss Jones, or with Miss Emily?”
“Did you cheat?”
Lucas mounted the podium in a single stride, raising his hand sharply. The motion sliced through the chaos, and silence fell like a curtain.
“Yes,” he said, his voice steady, cutting through the quiet. “Emily Crawford was my girlfriend.”
Gasps and murmurs rippled instantly across the hall. Pens scratched furiously against notepads, cameras clicked in rapid bursts.
“I’m holding this press conference to apologize to Emily. Our relationship lasted five years, and because of me… she suffered immensely.” His tone was firm, but regret weighed heavily in every word, his eyes shadowed by guilt.
A reporter rose from the front row, brows furrowed. “But Mr. Cantrell, didn’t you just announce Miss Jones as your fiancée a few weeks ago?”
Lucas’s jaw tightened, his eyes flashing. “That was a PR strategy to promote a project. I don’t have—and never had—a relationship with Amelia.”
