Chapter 4

The darkness of the penthouse suite was absolute. Gerard's hands were rough, driven by a chemical fire that completely bypassed his rational mind. He grabbed the zipper of Adaline's black velvet dress and pulled. The sound of tearing fabric was deafening in the quiet room.

Adaline panicked. Her fingers scrambled across the glass coffee table, searching for anything to defend herself. Her hand closed around a heavy, cold ashtray. She lifted it high, ready to strike his head.

The faint neon light from the street below shifted, casting a pale glow across Gerard's face. He was covered in a cold sweat. His facial muscles twitched. A low, agonizing groan escaped his throat. He looked like a man being tortured to death.

Adaline's hand froze in the air. Thirteen years of loving this man crashed into her chest. She could not hurt him. Even now, when he was tearing her apart, she could not bring the heavy glass down on him.

Her arm dropped to the floor. The ashtray rolled away.

Gerard felt her resistance fade. His frantic kisses rained down on her collarbone and shoulders. He was completely lost in the drug, acting on pure, desperate instinct.

His large, calloused hand slid down the curve of her bare spine. His rough fingertips brushed against the skin of her lower back, tracing the delicate, intricate lines of a small butterfly tattoo inked flawlessly into her flesh.

Gerard's frantic movements paused for a fraction of a second. His raspy voice whispered into the dark. "Beautiful butterfly."

Adaline's whole body shivered. She closed her eyes. A single tear slipped down her cheek and soaked into the carpet. She let go of her fears and let him pull her into the storm.

The heavy rain lashing against the windows masked the sounds inside the room. The night dissolved into a chaotic blur of heat, pain, and desperate clinging.

Two hours later, the storm finally broke. The drug burned out of Gerard's system, leaving him completely exhausted. He collapsed onto the mattress and fell into a deep, heavy sleep.

Adaline lay beside him. Her entire body ached as if she had been run over by a truck. She forced herself to sit up. The movement triggered a violent cramp in her stomach. The cancer was a brutal reminder that this body was failing. She had no right to pretend this night meant anything.

She climbed out of bed and picked up her torn velvet dress from the floor. The zipper was completely ruined. She could not wear it. She walked into the massive walk-in closet and found a high-end hotel suit provided for VIP guests.

She walked past the bathroom mirror. The skin on her neck and chest was covered in dark red marks. His marks.

She turned on the shower. She turned the handle all the way to cold. She stepped under the freezing water, scrubbing her skin until it turned pink, trying to wash away the scent of his sweat and cologne.

When she finished, she dressed quickly. She packed her ruined dress into her bag. She walked back into the bedroom and stood next to the bed.

Gerard was sleeping peacefully. His sharp features were relaxed. Adaline reached out, wanting to touch his face one last time.

Her fingers stopped an inch from his cheek. She pulled her hand back. If he woke up and saw her here, he would never believe she saved him. He would think she orchestrated the whole thing to trap him into staying married. He would hate her even more.

Adaline grabbed a tissue from the nightstand. She carefully wiped down the glass of water she had touched. She wiped the doorknobs. She scanned the white sheets and picked up three long strands of her own hair, carrying them to the bathroom and flushing them down the toilet.

She erased every physical trace of her existence in that room.

She walked to the door and grabbed the handle.

"Don't go."

Gerard's voice mumbled from the bed.

Adaline's heart stopped. Her blood turned to ice. She stood frozen by the door, not daring to breathe.

She waited. Ten seconds passed. Gerard rolled over and his breathing returned to a slow, steady rhythm. He was just talking in his sleep.

Adaline slowly turned the handle and slipped out of the room.

The hotel corridor was empty. She took the private elevator down to the garage, got into her Porsche, and drove out into the thick morning fog of Manhattan.

Her phone rang through the car's Bluetooth system. It was Clara. "Where were you last night? You never texted me back. I was worried sick."

Adaline stared at her pale reflection in the rearview mirror. Her voice was completely flat. "I drank too much. I fell asleep in a hotel room. I am fine."

She ended the call. She pulled the car over to the side of the road, put it in park, and dropped her head against the steering wheel. The tears she had held back all night finally broke free. She sobbed loudly in the empty car, mourning the end of her marriage and the cruel joke of last night.