The Contract Said No Strings Attached (Charlotte) novel Chapter 43

After a while, the assistant replied: they couldn’t find out who the person was, nor could they trace the IP address. The sender had been extremely careful—after sending the message, they left no trace behind.

The assistant added that the person was likely a top-tier hacker.

Dylan’s expression darkened even further.

Just what kind of expert could break into his phone and send him a message like that?

He was still turning it over in his mind when the door to the private lounge opened. A waiter stepped in, carrying a bottle of wine.

The waiter’s movements were practiced, but in front of Dylan, he seemed visibly uneasy.

He uncorked the bottle and poured the wine, then carefully handed the glass to Dylan.

Dylan narrowed his eyes, saying nothing, silently watching the waiter’s every move.

His gaze was intense and ice-cold, as if it could pierce right through a person’s soul. The waiter shivered under that look. He had no idea what he might have done wrong, but Dylan’s eyes made him feel deeply unsettled.

Suddenly, Dylan leaned forward, fixing his eyes on the waiter. His voice was cold as steel: “Drink this. Now.”

The waiter froze, clearly not expecting anything like this.

Dylan repeated, his tone even more chilling: “Didn’t you hear me? I said, drink it.”

The words brooked no argument, the threat in his voice unmistakable.

The waiter shook his head, pale-faced, his voice quivering. “Sir, this is your wine, I… I can’t…”

Everyone around the table looked over. Jonas couldn’t help but ask, “Dylan, what’s going on?”

Sweat beaded on the waiter’s forehead. His legs started to give out, nearly buckling under him, but he grit his teeth and forced himself to remain standing.

Fitch noticed something was wrong and leaned in, whispering, “What’s happening to him?”

Dylan’s eyes were sharp as knives as he stared at the waiter. “Be honest. What did you put in the wine?”

The waiter bit his lip, stubbornly insisting, “N-nothing. I just… can’t hold my liquor, I’m a little tipsy.”

Dylan gave a cold, derisive laugh—he clearly didn’t believe him.

Fitch, a veteran of countless clubs and lounges, immediately sensed something was off. He pulled a small bottle from his pocket, shook out a tiny pellet, and dropped it into the wine bottle.

Within moments, the color of the wine changed. Fitch brought the bottle to his nose and sniffed it. His eyes narrowed, his expression shifting subtly.