Chapter 7 No.7

It was 2:00 AM.

Emelie sat in the window seat of the master bedroom, the laptop balanced on her knees.

Lily was asleep in the room next door.

Emelie was typing furiously. The screen was filled with the draft of the RT303 Clinical Trial Protocol - Phase 2.

She was writing in German now, adding annotations for the Swiss team.

Molekülstabilität muss alle 4 Stunden überprüft werden. (Molecular stability must be checked every 4 hours.)

Her phone buzzed. A text from Clifton.

Running late. Dinner with the board.

Liar.

Emelie didn't reply. She kept typing.

Twenty minutes later, the front door opened.

Emelie didn't hide the laptop. She just lowered the screen slightly.

Clifton stumbled into the bedroom. He was drunk. Not falling-down drunk, but loose-limbed and heavy-eyed.

"Hey," he slurred slightly. "You're up."

He loosened his tie and tossed his jacket on the floor. He walked over to the window seat.

"What are you reading?" he asked, reaching out to touch her face.

Emelie held her breath.

As he leaned in, the smell hit her.

It wasn't just alcohol.

It was White Diamonds. Elizabeth Taylor. Heavy, floral, old-fashioned.

It was Eleanora's scent. And it was everywhere. It was in his hair. On his collar. On his skin.

He smelled like he had been marinating in it.

Emelie's stomach lurched. A wave of physiological nausea rolled over her.

She slapped his hand away. Hard.

"Don't touch me!"

Clifton recoiled, looking hurt. "What the hell? I'm your husband."

"You smell like a brothel," Emelie spat. She stood up, clutching the laptop to her chest. "Actually, you smell worse. You smell like her."

Clifton rubbed his face. "I told you, she was at the dinner. She hugged me goodbye. That's all."

"Did she hug you with her legs?" Emelie asked. "Because that scent is seeping out of your pores, Clifton. It's sticking to you like a disease."

"You're being paranoid," Clifton snapped, his guilt turning into anger. "I'm tired of this jealousy. Eleanora is a friend of the family. She's sick, Emelie. She needs support."

"She's sick?" Emelie laughed, a harsh sound. "Is that why you're using the samples? To support her?"

The words hung in the air.

Clifton went pale. Stone white.

"What did you say?" he whispered.

"I know about the biological assets, Clifton," Emelie said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "I know you're accessing the Glover trust materials. Don't lie to me."

Clifton stared at her. His eyes darted back and forth. He looked terrified.

"You don't know what you're talking about," he said, his voice shaking. "The trust is managed by the board. I just sign the papers."

"Get out," Emelie pointed to the door. "Go sleep in the guest room. Or better yet, go back to her. But do not sleep in my bed smelling like that."

Clifton stared at her for a long moment. Then he grabbed his jacket and stormed out.

Emelie locked the door.

She sat back down. Her hands were trembling.

She opened the laptop again.

She scrolled to the bottom of the document.

Lead Researcher: Ghost.

She hit Send.

The email flew to Zurich.

The next morning, Emelie was in the breakfast nook, drinking black coffee. She was dressed in a sharp navy suit.

Clifton walked in. He looked hungover and wary.

"Coffee?" Emelie pushed a mug toward him.

Clifton took it. He watched her over the rim. "About last night..."

"Forget it," Emelie said breezily. "I was tired. I overreacted."

Clifton blinked. The whiplash of her moods was confusing him. "Okay."

"So," Emelie said, buttering toast. "When do we leave for Germany?"

Clifton choked on his coffee. "Germany?"

"I heard you on the phone," Emelie said. "You're taking Lily to Germany for a checkup. I assume I'm invited?"

"Actually," Clifton set the mug down. "I was thinking... it might be better if I just took Lily. You need rest. The stress is getting to you."

"You want to take my daughter to another country without me?" Emelie's knife scraped loudly against the toast.

"Eleanora is going," Clifton said quickly. "She has... treatments there. She can help with Lily."

Emelie looked at him.

He was taking the mistress and the child. Leaving the wife behind.

"No," Emelie said.

"It's already arranged, Emelie. The jet leaves tomorrow."

"I said no." Emelie stood up. "I am going. If you try to stop me, I will call the police and report a kidnapping. I will call the press. I will burn your stock price to the ground."

Clifton stared at her. He saw something in her eyes he had never seen before.

It wasn't love. It wasn't fear.

It was war.

"Fine," Clifton muttered. "Pack a bag."