This Crazy Rich Boy

Gabriel could not bring Claire to a hospital. There are eyes and ears everywhere, and this could easily get blown out of proportion. He couldn't risk it. Yet, he also couldn't risk Claire's well-being, so on the way to the Residence, he has already called up Lopez the butler, who in turn contacted the best doctor they know.

Lopez has also arranged everything in the Residence so Gabriel and Claire could arrive in utmost privacy. Only Dale and Lucille the chambermaid are allowed to serve them. They use the service elevator for the back-of-house staff—people who now are actually just serving a single person—which also opens directly on the penthouse floor.

Lopez the butler and the doctor are already there when they arrive. They all help in placing Claire on the bed and making her comfortable. The doctor performs all the mandatory checkups—at least the ones that don't require medical instruments. After checking her eyes and her breathing, the doctor extracts a vial of blood from her arm.

"Is that necessary?" Gabriel says, eyeing the amount of blood in the glass vial.

"I'm afraid it is," the doctor mutters. Then he drops some of the blood into an instrument and waits. The instrument makes an odd beeping sound, and displays some numbers on the LED screen.

"It's Rohypnol, the date **** drug" the doctor says, shaking his head. "At a fairly high dose."

Gabriel pinches the bridge of his nose. "Is she going to be okay?"

"Well," the doctor says, rummaging through his bag. He finds another vial of blue liquid. He shows it to Gabriel. "She will be fine after I give her this antidote, which was actually developed by one of your companies, Mr. Tan."

"Really?"

The doctor nods, then without another word, he injects the blue liquid into Claire's arm. The woman doesn't budge; she stays blissfully unaware of everything.

The doctor straightens up. "Well, now, you'll only have to let her rest for about six hours. She'll be fine. She'll wake up without much recollection of what happened to her. She might not even remember whoever did this to her."

"It's not really relevant, Doc. That has been taken care of."

The doctor shrugs. "Please call me if you notice anything, anything at all, Mr. Tan."

"He's staying in a suite on the ground floor," Lopez buŧŧs in. "So he'll be here just in case you need him, sir."

Gabriel smiles. "Perfect. And thank you. I really appreciate this."

After the two left, Gabriel paces the suite's receiving area, deep in thought. Then he makes a phone call—a brief one, which ended with him muttering some curses. He walks into the pantry and comes out holding a full glass of whisky. He stands by the glass wall, gazing at the skyline of the glittering city, sipping his whisky. He's not really like this. He's not really into alcohol. But he needs to calm down his nerves, and somehow, the chemical warmth that settles in his belly feels good, for the moment.

So many things have happened in the past few days, as though his life has accelerated and everything's happening in a dizzying blur. He bȧrėly even has time to think. What makes it worse is that nagging feeling about having done something terrible, or wrong. His mind points to the obvious—hiring Claire Monteverde to do a dirty hatchet job—but his heart says something else—how could it be "bad" when being with this woman feels good?

There are many things he can't really admit even to himself, even in moments of dark candor. He can't even say it out loud to his mirror's reflection every morning. But this fake thing, this fake job for his fake fiancée—more and more, the fakeness fades and he's starting to feel something real.

Or is it? Isn't this another one of those instances of him being misled by his own feelings? With the chaos all around him, can he still trust anything, especially that which his heart feels?

Gabriel takes a sip of the whisky. Then another. And another. Soon, the glass is empty. But instead of quitting, he solemnly refills the glass to the brim. He stares at the golden liquid and imagines what it will do to his feelings—would it drown this silly thing he feels?

So many questions, but not even one clear answer. He gulps it down again—and strangely for a man who doesn't usually drink, the liquor tastes like water. And before long, the room starts to wobble. He remembers the doctor's words: "Call me if you notice anything. Anything, at all." So how's Claire?

He ambles toward the bedroom where Claire lies, peacefully asleep. He tries to walk straight but his head, his limbs feel heavy. He stops by the door and stares at Claire's sleeping figure: she looks like something plucked straight from a fairytale book. Why hasn't he noticed it before? Claire's actually really lovely. And to think…Nah, he musn't feel this way. Kill this love—isn't it what that famous song says?

"Call me if you notice anything," the doctor's words flash in his mind.

He makes a step toward the bed, and somehow, his foot trips on the carpet—the room spins, and he sees his whisky glass flying in the air, making a lovely arc over Claire, spilling all the whisky over Claire's dress. Then he falls face-down on the carpet.

Gabriel grimaces in pain. As he stands up, only then he realizes he has "bathed" the sleeping Claire with his whisky. He stares at her for minutes, unsure of what to do. The first thing he thinks is calling up Lucille, the chamber maid. He's already holding the phone when he stops: this is a simple thing, why ask someone else to clean her up? It's a simple matter of changing her clothes, right?

He can take off her dress, and replace it with the hotel's own bathrobe—all by himself. No need to involve anyone else. Surely, that's nothing but necessary between boss and employee, right?

In his whisky-clouded mind, it seems the most logical thing.

So he does the "normal" thing a man can do in a situation like this: he starts unbuttoning her blouse, thinking he could easily swap it with a clean one—surely, there's a clean blouse in the wardrobe somewhere around here, right? But as he unbuttons her blouse, trying not to look at her body, a weird thing happens—the room starts to spin again, and this time, the light undulates—as though he's underwater. The room spins, and he shakes his head to make it stop, only to worsen it. He closes his eyes, willing everything to calm down, the room to stop, but the opposite thing happens—the room tumbles upside-down in his vision, Claire's body seems to drop on him from the ceiling, and as his nostrils get filled with her delightful womanly scent, as the whisky-induced darkness wraps its wings around his mind, the last thing he remembers is how soft, how delightful Claire's skin feels on his face. Before everything recedes into an inky silence.