Cassius walked around and slid into the driver's seat, which still held her body heat and a faint scent of perfume.
The sports car's interior was luxurious—a world away from the beat-up cars his classmates drove back in the day.
He adjusted the seat and mirrors, then buckled up.
"Address?"
Kristen mumbled the name of a hotel in Beverly Hills, then rested her head against the window and closed her eyes. Her breathing evened out quickly. She seemed to be asleep.
Cassius set the GPS and started the car.
The engine let out a low growl.
He drove steadily and slowly, strictly obeying the speed limit.
The late-night LA roads were empty, with only the occasional car passing by.
The drive was quiet.
Only the GPS voice prompts and the sound of Kristen's steady breathing filled the cabin.
Cassius focused on the road, occasionally glancing to his side.
She was sleeping deeply. Her thick eyelashes cast shadows on her cheeks. Stripped of her on-screen coolness and her earlier irritability, she looked a little fragile.
As they neared the hotel, Kristen stirred. She opened her eyes groggily and looked out the window.
"Are we there?"
"Almost," Cassius replied.
The car pulled up to the hotel entrance, and the valet immediately stepped forward.
Cassius unbuckled his seatbelt and turned to Kristen.
"We're here. Can you make it up yourself?"
Kristen tried to push the door open, but her body was soft, her movements weak.
She frowned, clearly having overestimated her condition.
"Help me out?"
Her voice was soft, carrying a hint of helplessness.
Cassius had no choice. He got out, walked around to the passenger side, and opened the door.
He reached out to support her arm, helping her stand steady.
Her body leaned against him—heavy, warm, and smelling faintly sweet.
The valet was smart enough not to interfere, standing silently to the side.
Cassius half-supported, half-carried her out of the car. Her arm draped naturally around his neck, her head resting near his shoulder.
The close contact made his body go a little stiff.
He could feel her breath brushing against the skin of his neck.
Supporting her weight, he said to the valet, "Miss Stewart's room. Lead the way, please."
The valet clearly knew who she was. He immediately led them through a private entrance straight to her suite.
Kristen fished a key card out of her small purse and swiped the door open.
"Thanks... Mr. Driver."
She walked into the room with unsteady steps and collapsed directly onto the massive living room sofa, curling up like she was about to pass out again.
Cassius stood at the door, not entering.
He looked at Kristen slumped on the sofa and hesitated.
Leaving her alone like this didn't seem safe.
"Do you need me to call an assistant or a friend for you?" he asked from the doorway.
Kristen squirmed on the sofa and mumbled, "No... don't call anyone... let me sleep..."
Cassius sighed.
He couldn't just leave.
He walked into the suite but left the door ajar.
He went to the bathroom, grabbed a clean towel, dampened it with warm water, walked back to the sofa, and gently tapped her shoulder.
"Wipe your face. You'll feel better."
Kristen took the towel groggily, wiped her face haphazardly, and slumped back down.
Cassius took the towel away. It seemed she had really fallen asleep again.
Resigned, he pulled up a single armchair nearby and sat down.
He decided to wait until she was deeply asleep to ensure there were no issues before leaving.
The room was quiet, save for her steady breathing.
Cassius leaned back in the chair, looking out at the Beverly Hills night view. It felt surreal.
A few hours ago, he was drinking cheap beer at a wrap party in an industrial zone. Now he was sitting in a luxury suite babysitting a top Hollywood actress.
That's LA for you. Anything can happen.
He didn't know how long he sat there.
Only when he was sure Kristen was sleeping soundly and breathing normally did he stand up quietly.
He placed the used towel on the bathroom vanity.
Then he silently backed out of the room.
Cassius put his hand on the doorknob. Before he could turn, he heard a suppressed retching sound coming from the suite.
He froze. Cursed internally.
He hesitated for half a second, then closed the door and went back into the room.
If she choked on her own vomit and died, he'd be a suspect. No way he was risking that.
In the living room, Kristen was half-hanging off the edge of the sofa. The floor was a mess. The air reeked of sour vomit.
She was convulsing slightly, uncontrolled, her face pale as a sheet.
"Fck!"
Cassius swore under his breath, his stomach turning.
Fighting the nausea, he rushed over and pulled Kristen up, propping her against the back of the sofa so she wouldn't choke.
She was barely conscious, mumbling incoherently.
Cleaning this mess was definitely above his pay grade—and beyond his mental endurance.
He immediately grabbed the room phone and hit the front desk button.
"Hi. I need housekeeping. Emergency cleanup."
He tried to keep his voice calm.
Within two minutes, a middle-aged maid in a neat uniform pushed a cart to the door. Her expression was blank; clearly, she had seen it all.
"Sorry about this. It needs a thorough clean."
Cassius stepped aside to let her in, simultaneously pulling two twenty-dollar bills from his wallet and handing them to her.
The maid took the tip, tucked it into her pocket efficiently, and her expression softened a fraction.
"Leave it to me, sir. I suggest you take Miss Stewart to the bedroom to rest. This room needs to be aired out."
Relieved, Cassius quickly half-carried the limp Kristen into the bedroom and settled her on the bed.
He took off her shoes and covered her with the duvet.
Back in the living room, the maid was working efficiently. The smell of disinfectant was starting to overpower the other odors.
Cassius looked at the glittering Beverly Hills nightscape outside the window, then at the luxurious suite. Suddenly, he felt hungry.
He had been too busy drinking beer and socializing at the party to eat much.
Since the room was on Kristen's tab anyway, and he had been working half the night—almost puking himself in the process—ordering some food wasn't excessive, right?
Consider it a labor fee and emotional damage compensation.
He picked up the leather-bound menu on the coffee table.
The prices made his eye twitch.
A club sandwich was $35!
Freshly squeezed orange juice was $18!
That was enough for several fried chicken feasts in Koreatown!
But he was tired and starving, and Kristen was paying.
With a mindset of revenge spending, he ordered the club sandwich, a Caesar salad, a mushroom soup, and that exorbitantly priced orange juice.
After ordering, he sat down at the large dining table in the living room.
The smell near the sofa hadn't fully dissipated, and he didn't want to go over there.
Soon, a waiter rolled in a cart.
The food was served on exquisite white bone plate.
The club sandwich was stacked high—perfectly toasted bread layered with turkey, bacon, lettuce, tomato, and mayo, served with golden, crispy potato wedges.
The Caesar salad was crisp romaine, evenly dusted with parmesan and croutons.
The mushroom soup was in a tureen, steaming hot and rich.
Abandoning all image, Cassius picked up the sandwich and took a huge bite.
Crispy outside, soft inside. Tender turkey, smoky bacon, fresh veggies, and creamy mayo. It was indeed several tiers above the fast food he usually ate.
The wedges were crispy on the outside, fluffy on the inside, and perfectly salted.
He took a spoonful of the mushroom soup. Silky texture, intense mushroom umami, creamy, with a kick of black pepper.
And that $18 orange juice? It really was fresh-squeezed. Sweet, tart, refreshing—none of that reconstituted bitterness.
He wolfed it down, feeling his energy slowly returning.
High-end hotel food. Expensive as hell, but delicious as hell.
This quality, piled up by money, made a deep impression on the poor kid who had just climbed up from the bottom.