Love Unspoken

Quinn bit her lip, rolling her eyes in frustration. Her fingers found a lighter tucked away in the dashboard, which she quickly snatched up. Locating some tissue, she rolled it into a makeshift torch and sparked the lighter. Soon, tendrils of smoke began to curl out of the window, dancing into the night air.

A man standing nearby, his figure silhouetted against the car window, caught a whiff of the smoke. His senses alerted, he turned his attention to the vehicle, his brows furrowing in suspicion. "Who's smoking with the windows rolled up?" he murmured to himself, his voice barely above a whisper.Text content © NôvelDrama.Org.

His suspicion grew as he laid a hand on the car's bonnet, finding it cool to the touch. The engine hadn't been started. With a growing sense of unease, he circled back to where Quinn was trapped, rapping on her window with two fingers. Quinn reacted instantly, her hand slamming against the glass in response. The sound echoed in the man's ears, prompting him to ask, "Is someone in there?"

Quinn's mouth opened, but no sound emerged. She could only continue to pound on the window, her fist a blur against the glass. The smoke from her makeshift signal thickened the air inside the car, causing her to choke.

The man paused, straining his ears to confirm the presence of someone inside. His gaze fell on the car's emblem, causing him to hesitate before resorting to smashing the window. "I'll check whose car this is, wait for me!" he called out to the car before spinning on his heel and rushing into the nearby hotel.

Upon entering, he shouted to the gathered crowd, "Who owns the Maybach outside? The plate number is five-eight! Someone's trapped in there. Come and take a look!"

His words hung in the air, met with silence as all eyes turned toward him. The room buzzed with speculation about the car's owner. "Whose car is that?" "Mine is a Maybach, but I don't have that plate number." "Could it be his, maybe?" The crowd's collective gaze turned to the second floor, where Alexander resided, but no one dared to disturb him.

"Hey, Preston, it could be Alexander's car. He's upstairs with your dad. Maybe you could go and ask?" someone suggested. The young man in question was none other than Preston Getty, the youngest son of the prestigious Getty family. His presence was unexpected, but he was a familiar face to all.

"Alright." Preston hummed nonchalantly. The matter concerned a human life, so he agreed without further thought. He dashed upstairs, flung open the door to the VIP room, and shouted, "Which one of you is Alexander? There's someone locked in your Maybach!"

His words echoed in the silent room, causing all eyes to turn to him. Alexander glanced at him, his expression unreadable. Preston's countenance shifted, his hand instinctively reaching out to grab Alexander's sleeve. Why would someone be trapped in his car?

He didn't bring Quinn here, did he? If he did, how could she explain her presence when she showed up at the event? "Preston, stop causing trouble. How could there be someone in Alexander's car? Get out of here!" Mr. Getty scolded.

"But I heard someone knocking on the car window! Go check if you don't believe me!" Preston insisted, his voice laced with worry.

Seeing Alexander rise, Getty clung to him desperately, her grip tight. She managed a strained smile, saying, "It's just our Golden Retriever. We didn't bring him down yet. Don't worry, Preston, nothing's wrong." She turned to Alexander, her eyes seeking confirmation. "Right?"