His Entertainer

Chapter 43

                CORA TYSON POV

I sighed deeply as I parked my car outside Hermann’s sprawling mansion, the weight of frustration pressing on my chest like a storm about to break. How could Hermann be so blinded? Wilmert's words echoed relentlessly—he promised he wouldn’t hurt him. And yet, Hermann’s obsession with seeing Ivy again seemed less about pleading for his life and more like madness.

Pushing the front door open, I found Carlos standing stiffly in the grand foyer. Tall, athletic, endlessly optimistic—that was Carlos Maxwell. Probably the best chef anyone could hope for; also, unquestionably the most naive. I smirked inwardly. Today was going to be... interesting.

“Where is everyone?” I asked, dropping my handbag heavily on the polished table.

“Out,” Carlos replied simply, pressing a glass of juice into my hand. “They’ve got leads.”

“And you’re not with them?” I pressed again.

“Morgan can’t be left alone,” he said, voice firm, protective—a true guardian.

I glanced around, stomach grumbling. “Is there anything to eat? I’m starving.”

At that, Carlos perked up like a child caught off guard. “Actually, yes.”

As he strutted off towards the kitchen, I slid two glasses of wine onto the table, pulling a bottle from my bag. Wine was luxury—but tonight, an advantage. Calmly, I slipped a sedative into one glass.

Carlos returned with a tray, surprised by the wine on the table.

“What’s the occasion?” He asked, eyes searching.

“Nothing fancy. Just thought you might want to join me for a glass,” I said with a disarming grin.

“I would love to, but I have to pass. Sorry,” he declined politely.

“Rude to turn down a lady, Carlos,” I teased, shrugging.

His eyes flicked nervously between the glasses and me. “Just a glass, right?”

“Just a glass,” I reassured, motioning to the chair opposite.

He hesitated, then sat down, sipping cautiously.

“May I ask you something?” His voice was tentative.

“Shoot.”

“Are you... okay?” His concern was genuine, slicing through my facade.

I froze, brow furrowing. “What do you think?”

He continued carefully, “Doesn't this whole Ivy thing... affect you? I mean, it matters, right?”

I leaned back, a sharp smirk curling my lips. “There’s a difference between a queen and a whore, Carlos.”

His eyes widened in confusion.

“A queen fights to survive," I bit off each word with icy precision, "while a whore... well, she’ll fuck her way out.”

I shoved a forkful of spaghetti into my mouth with casual arrogance, chewing thoughtfully before raising my glass.

Carlos blinked, his vision already swimming as the drug took hold.

“What’s happening?” he slurred, hands grasping at his head.

“I’m telling you the truth,” I said coldly. “Whores give birth to bastards—queens bear heirs.”

His chair tilted, and he collapsed with a suddenness that stole my breath.