CHAPTER 275: CHAPTER 274: EXTRAVAGANT BREAKFAST

Eventually, they changed into fresh clothes, the softness of cotton and clean fabric a welcome contrast to their earlier indulgence. Thankfully, the luxurious hotel had an entire walk-in wardrobe stocked with outfits of all sizes and styles, clearly designed for guests who arrived with nothing or, perhaps, left everything... behind.

They didn’t even bother looking for their original clothes. At this point, finding a single piece intact would’ve been nothing short of a miracle. Between the scratching, tugging, biting, and whatever else last night had spiraled into, those clothes had likely been reduced to shreds. A casualty of war... one that neither of them regretted in the slightest.

Rex glanced at the floor near the bed, spotting a lone button under the table. "That from your dress or mine?" he asked dryly.

Monica laughed. "Who cares? All I know is, if that suite could talk, it’d probably demand trauma counseling."

...

Once they’d freshened up and changed into comfortable clothes, thankfully provided by the hotel in a variety of sizes, they settled into the spacious lounge area of the suite like lazy cats. The hotel suite around them was quiet and dimly lit, the air still carrying the scent of lavender from the bath.

Their stomachs had started to growl in quiet protest, but neither was in a rush. Everything felt soft around the edges, as if the world had slowed down for just the two of them.

Monica grabbed the hotel’s tablet and began scrolling through the room service menu, eyes lighting up with every dish she saw.

"Ooh, look! Truffle fries! And they’ve got wagyu sliders, should we go full hedonist?" she asked, half-teasing, half-serious.

Rex leaned in with a smug grin. "As if we haven’t already."

She shot him a look—mock-offended, but her smile gave her away.

"What do you want?" Monica asked, handing him the tablet with a relaxed grin. "They’ve got literally everything, steaks, sushi, desserts, even vegan stuff.

"No need to choose, let’s get everything that seems good." He replied with a casual grin.

They picked out everything that caught their fancy or sounded good in the moment; a salmon tartare neither of them could pronounce, strawberry shortcake, a chocolate soufflé, and mocktails with names like Crimson Dream

and Sunset Whisper. It wasn’t about hunger anymore, it was indulgence for indulgence’s sake.

Then, with the order placed, they curled up on the couch together, limbs tangled lazily, like two people with nowhere to be and no masks to wear.

With food on the way and nothing pressing to interrupt them, they started talking. Really talking.

What began as small talk soon grew deeper. Slowly, but naturally, they opened up, not just about their careers or public images, but about who they really were beneath the spotlight and ambition.

It started light, favorite colors, the worst films they’d ever seen, tidbits of the entertainment industry, which actors were secretly awful kissers on screen.

The conversation drifted from casual to personal before either noticed the shift. From favorite colors to embarrassing childhood memories, from awkward teen phases to the meaning of success, they peeled back layers with surprising ease.

She told him about her strict upbringing, parents who loved success more than anything else, glittering, chaotic, where fame was expected and privacy was rare. He shared his more grounded roots, the way he hustled his way up, the lines he crossed, the ones he still refused to.

And somewhere between laughter and long pauses, they drifted into the more fragile corners of themselves. They traded fears and phobias, hers was deep water and sudden silence, his was hospitals and losing control.

They spoke about things they hadn’t said aloud in a long time; family rifts, mistakes, dreams, regrets. For a while, time slowed. It wasn’t about seduction or teasing anymore. It was just two people, stripped of performance, sharing space like they’d known each other far longer than a single night.

At one point, Monica blinked at him and said softly, "You’re... not what I expected."

Rex raised an eyebrow. "Disappointed?"

She smiled. "Not even close."

He smirked. "Careful. Keep talking like that and I might start catching feelings."

She poked his chest. "Don’t flatter yourself. I’m just hungry."

He caught her finger and held it for a second longer than necessary. "Sure you are."

They both laughed, loud and real this time. The kind of laughter that made your chest warm. That made you forget the world outside even existed.

Just then, the doorbell chimed. Room service had arrived.

But somehow, the best course had already been served.

...

The knock came right on time. Two sharply dressed waiters wheeled in trays layered with silver domes and crystal glasses, their movements precise and practiced. They moved around the suite silently, heads respectfully lowered, eyes trained on the task—not the pair still lounging, hair slightly tousled, a glow of contentment clinging to their skin.

Rex noticed the nervous professionalism and smirked faintly. As the waiters finished setting the table and turned to leave, Rex reached into the inner pocket of his pants and pulled out two crisp $100 bills, which he had found earlier while looking for important stuff from wreckage. Without a word, he slipped one into each of their hands with an easy, dismissive nod.

"Thanks for your hard work," he said casually, like it was nothing.

The waiters gave a polite bow, murmured their thanks, and quietly exited.

The door shut behind them with a soft click.

Monica noticed the gesture, quiet, effortless, almost habitual. She didn’t comment, but a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. It was a little detail, but it told her something about him.

Then, finally, they turned to the food.

The breakfast was extravagant, clearly meant for a party of five but set before just two. Steam rose from every plate as they uncovered the feast: At the center sat a plate of salmon tartare, which neither of them could pronounce properly,so delicately arranged it looked like edible art—folds of pink fish layered with avocado mousse and topped with a dollop of black caviar.

Surrounding it was an obscene variety; There was a rich chocolate soufflé, perfectly risen and still warm, and collapsing in the center from its molten core; paired with strawberry shortcake that looked too pretty to eat, fluffy, creamy, and dusted with powdered sugar like a final kiss.

Beside those were buttery golden croissants, Greek yogurt with honey and berries, slices of artisanal cheese, fluffy scrambled eggs topped with truffle shavings, and an array of freshly sliced tropical fruits.

Two tall glasses of mocktails sat like jewels on the table, Crimson Dream, deep red with hints of pomegranate and mint, and Sunset Whisper, a beautiful gradient of orange and pink, tangy with passionfruit and blood orange.

It wasn’t about hunger anymore.

This was indulgence. Pure, unapologetic indulgence.

The kind of breakfast you didn’t eat because you needed to, but because you could.

They dug in without restraint.

Monica, with her hair slightly damp and skin glowing from the earlier skincare session, looked genuinely happy as she devoured her soufflé. Rex, watching her polish off half the tartare with alarming speed and eye the shortcake, chuckled under his breath.

(End of Chapter)