The establishment was a world away from the chaotic noise of a typical bar. The decor was opulent and clinical, with only the occasional silent footfall of a staff member echoing in the corridors.

Dolores looked around, her brow furrowing in confusion. “What kind of place is this, Sampson?”

“A bar,” he replied, his grip firm as he led her toward a heavy door at the far end of the hallway.

“I’ve rarely seen a bar this quiet,” she noted, her instincts prickling.

“It’s a private club. It’s not open to the public—only a select few have access,” Sampson explained, his voice smooth. “I thought you’d prefer the quiet.”

They reached the private suite, and Sampson pushed the door open. The room was vast but felt strangely stifling under the dim, amber glow of the lamps. A plush black leather sofa sat against the far wall, facing a low table already prepared with two glasses and two bottles of vintage red wine.

Dolores paused. “You arranged all this in advance?”

Sampson stiffened for a fraction of a second, but his recovery was seamless. “I’m a VIP here; this is my permanent reservation. The wine is from my private collection.”

Dolores walked deeper into the room, trailing her fingers along the furniture. “I don't remember you being much of a wine drinker.”

Sampson stayed by the door, his gaze fixed on her slender back. He seemed to fall into a brief trance. “People change, don’t they? I’m only human, Lola. I have emotions and desires just like anyone else. I can only feel the ache of loving someone I can’t have for so long before it changes me.”

The heavy undertone in his voice wasn't lost on her.

Dolores decided to play it casual, hoping to diffuse the tension. She toyed with the stem of a crystal goblet, her tone light. “There are billions of people in this world. Fate brings us together, but not everyone is meant to stay. There’s a saying: ‘If it’s meant to be, it will be.’”

Sampson looked down and let out a dry, mirthless chuckle. “You’re always so eloquent, Lola. You never give me an inch, do you? Is this how you show respect to your elders?”

Dolores turned, offering him a warm, sisterly smile. “You’re not old, Sampson. To me, you’ll always be the man in the white coat, the one who looked after Jeremy with such care. You’ve always been like a big brother to me. I haven't forgotten that.”

Sampson’s expression darkened as he uncorked the wine. “Let’s not talk about the past.”

He didn't want to remember the "big brother" he used to be. He was afraid that if he dwelled on their history, his resolve would crumble. But Maria Herbert’s warning echoed in his mind: Without ruining Dolores, Matthew Nelson will never return to Maria. The Herbert family’s future depended on this betrayal.

“Stop pacing and sit down,” Sampson urged, pouring the deep crimson liquid. “Have a drink with me.”

Dolores sat on the sofa and accepted the glass. The wine was exquisite—mellow and fragrant. Sampson clinked his glass against hers with a sharp, chilling clink. “To painting the town red.”

“I’m not much of a drinker,” Dolores warned. “I can't get wasted with you. I need to get back early—Simona can’t fall asleep without me.” It was her nightly ritual to put her daughter to bed; she didn't want to burden Jessica Lennon.

Sampson didn’t respond. He simply tilted his head back and drained his glass in one go. He showed her the empty crystal. “My turn is done. Yours?”

Feeling obligated, Dolores drank. The wine was smooth, lacking the harsh burn of white spirits, making it dangerously easy to swallow.

Sampson immediately refilled her glass. “This is the first time we’ve shared a drink in a place this quiet.”

“Mmhmm.” Dolores stared at the swirling red liquid. Suddenly, the room seemed to tilt. She blinked rapidly, trying to clear her vision. “This wine... it’s incredibly strong.”

“Is it?” Sampson asked, his voice sounding oddly distorted.

“Yes.” A wave of dizziness washed over her.

“Is that just an excuse to stop drinking with me?” Sampson asked, his tone teasing but sharp.

“No, no...” Dolores rubbed her temples. The vertigo wasn't fading; it was intensifying with terrifying speed.

Sampson handed her the full glass again. “Don't try to fool me, Lola. You promised to keep me company tonight.”

Dolores tried to focus on him, but his features were blurring into a smudge of light and shadow. Under his relentless urging, she downed the second glass.

“I really... I can’t,” she whispered, her voice slurring. “I’m drunk. I have to go... Samuel and Simona... they’re waiting...”

She tried to stand, her legs feeling like lead. She took two stumbling steps before her knees buckled. Her world went completely black as she collapsed onto the floor.

Sampson remained seated, watching her fall with a cold, detached intensity. He had known she wouldn't make it to the door.

He finished his own wine, set the glass down with a precise snap, and stood up. He gathered her limp, unconscious form into his arms and laid her back onto the sofa. She was so light, so fragile.

He sat beside her, his fingers trembling as he brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. “Don’t blame me, Lola. You’re the one who pushed me to this.”

This had been calculated long before they arrived. Maria Herbert had provided the plan, but it was Sampson who had executed it. He had added a potent sedative to the mineral water she'd had earlier—a chemical that accelerated gastric absorption. Combined with the high alcohol content of the red wine, it was a guaranteed blackout.

Even if she were found, people would just assume she had passed out from drinking too much.

Sampson began to unbutton her blouse, his breath hitching as her pale, smooth skin was revealed to the dim light. His hand traveled up her neck, tracing the line of her jaw.

“I know you’ll hate me when you wake up,” he whispered into the silence. “But there’s no going back for either of us now.”

Her chest rose and fell in a slow, drug-induced rhythm. Her stomach was flat, marked only by the faint, silvery stretch marks from her pregnancy with the twins. To Sampson, they weren't scars—they were a testament to her womanhood, silver threads that made her look both vulnerable and incredibly alluring.

His hand lingered on her belly. “Maria says women are slaves to their first experiences. She thinks if you believe it was Matthew Nelson who took you tonight, you’ll fall for him all over again.”

He let out a low, bitter laugh. “When Matthew saw you again, he called off the engagement. You stayed away for so long, but the moment you met him, you came back. Was it really for him?”

He leaned down, pressing his lips against hers. It was the first time he had kissed her without her pushing him away, without her body tensing in rejection.

“Maybe Maria is right,” he whispered against her skin. “Maybe a 'roll in the hay' is all it takes to spark a subconscious connection. But if it’s me tonight, Lola... will you finally have feelings for me?”

His fingers moved to the button of her slacks. The zipper hissed in the quiet room.