Late at night, in a suite at the Hilton Hotel,

Sarah's soft voice echoed with a slight hoarseness. "Sir..."

But the man didn't respond, half-leaning against the headboard.

Was he upset about what had happened earlier?

"Sir..." Sarah suppressed a shiver that was rising within her. But before she could lift her delicate arm, it was suddenly grabbed in a firm grip.

The grip was so strong it felt like he was going to crush her bones.

Sarah's pale, charming face tightened, but before she could say anything, the lights in the room suddenly brightened. She found herself facing cold, piercing black eyes.

The man was cold, pale, and his features were sharp. His narrow eyes resembled an impenetrable night sky, deep black. But behind those eyes, there was a cold, merciless gleam.

Sarah was so frightened that her eyes widened, a cold shiver running up from her feet.

"You are not Mike Johnson!" Her voice trembled. "Who are you?"

"Someone you shouldn't be dealing with!" he replied.

Sarah panicked. How was this possible? She had clearly given the room card to Mike Johnson. She hadn't hesitated when someone entered the room in the dark. But now, the man's dominating presence and icy gaze made it clear she should not disturb him.

Thinking back to what had just happened and her current situation, Sarah felt trapped.

"Let me go!" she tried to escape, but her hands were firmly held. No matter how hard she struggled, the man remained unyielding.

Sarah's face flushed, her body burning with embarrassment and anger. But she couldn’t back down.

She lowered her eyes, staring at the man's face. "After all, you're not the man I want. As if I do a good deed every day, let me go, and we’ll be even."

The man chuckled, then, with his free hand, gripped her chin, forcing her mouth open. "You dream of my nephew while sneaking into my room, and you dare say we’re even?"

Sarah felt her face twist under the pressure, her teeth aching terribly. "What nephew? Which of your nephews? Don’t play innocent after taking advantage!"

She struggled, scratching at the man's face. He turned his head to avoid it, but her long nails left a bloody mark on his neck.

The man turned back, his cold eyes locking onto Sarah. His thin lips whispered softly three words: "Mike Johnson."

The bloody mark on his pale skin looked like a red stain on pure jade, with a malevolent charm.

Mike Johnson? Mike Johnson was his nephew?

Sarah realized, with a delayed horror. This man was the one who ruled Los Angeles with an iron fist—John Sinclair.

It was as though a bucket of ice-cold water had been poured over her; Sarah’s face instantly turned pale.

She knew exactly who she should never offend.

It was said that John Sinclair was at the top of the power chain in Los Angeles, and no one dared provoke him.

At this moment, his fingers, delicate as jade, slowly descended, pinching her white neck. With a single movement, she could be destroyed.

Sarah saw the cold, murderous intent in his eyes.

No, she couldn’t die here!

Just before she was about to suffocate, Sarah used her free hand to grab the man's hand and apply pressure.

The man’s expression changed suddenly, and he released his grip.

Ignoring the burning pain in her throat, Sarah stumbled toward the bed. But before she could get out, her foot was grabbed. He threw her violently onto the bed.