Chapter 7

Morning sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the guest bedroom.

Charlene stood in front of the bathroom mirror. She had showered and washed away the last traces of the submissive wife.

From the meager pile of her pre-marriage clothes, she pulled out a vibrant, blood-red, form-fitting dress. It hugged every curve of her body perfectly. It was a color Dawson had strictly forbidden, claiming it was too loud, too aggressive. It was the exact opposite of Angelita's pale, ghostly aesthetic.

She sat at the vanity and applied a thick coat of matte crimson lipstick. She stared at her reflection. She looked dangerous. She looked alive.

She slipped her feet into a pair of black stiletto heels.

She walked out of the bedroom and descended the grand staircase. The sharp clack-clack of her heels echoed loudly through the quiet house.

In the dining room on the first floor, Dawson sat at the head of the table. He was sipping black coffee and reading the Wall Street Journal.

Hearing the aggressive footsteps, he lowered the paper.

His eyes locked onto the red dress. His breath hitched. A flash of undeniable lust sparked in his dark eyes, instantly followed by a surge of territorial rage.

He slammed his porcelain coffee cup down onto the saucer. The dark liquid sloshed over the rim.

"Where exactly do you think you're going dressed like a cheap escort?" he barked.

Charlene walked casually to the table. She picked up a piece of dry toast and took a small bite.

"Shopping in Manhattan," she replied, not bothering to look at him.

Dawson pushed his chair back violently. The wooden legs screeched against the floorboards.

He closed the distance between them in two massive strides. He planted his tall frame directly in front of her, blocking her path to the door. His eyes scanned her painted lips and the tight fabric of her dress.

A dark suspicion clawed at his brain. Was this amnesia real? Or was this an elaborate, twisted game to make him want her?

He decided to test the theory.

Dawson's hand shot out. He grabbed her by the waist, his fingers digging painfully into her ribs. He yanked her flush against his hard chest.

Before she could react, he ducked his head and smashed his mouth against hers. It wasn't a kiss; it was a brutal interrogation. He was trying to force her body to remember its submission, to melt against him like she always did.

But Charlene didn't melt. Her muscles locked up, turning as rigid as stone. Bile rose in her throat.

She shoved both hands against his chest, trying to break his grip, but he was too strong.

Panic and disgust warring in her chest, Charlene opened her jaw and clamped her teeth down hard on his bottom lip.

She bit down until she tasted the sharp, metallic tang of hot blood.

Dawson let out a muffled groan of pain. His grip loosened just enough.

He pulled back, raising the back of his hand to his mouth. He looked down at his knuckles. They were smeared with bright red blood.

His eyes snapped up to her, turning pitch black with fury.

Charlene didn't wait for him to recover. She shoved him hard in the chest, grabbed her handbag from the table, and sprinted toward the front door.

She threw the heavy oak door open and ran down the driveway. The Uber she had ordered on her private phone was already idling at the gates.

She threw herself into the backseat. "Drive! Now!" she yelled at the driver.

The car sped away, leaving the estate behind.

Inside the foyer, Dawson stood frozen. His chest heaved with ragged breaths. The taste of his own blood sat heavy on his tongue.

He turned and sprinted up the stairs. He kicked the guest room door open. The bed was made. The room was empty.

He ran to the master bedroom and tore open the drawers of her vanity. Her skincare bottles were gone. Her jewelry boxes were empty. The book she always kept on the nightstand had vanished.

There was absolutely no trace of Charlene left in the room.

A sudden, suffocating wave of panic crashed over him. The control was slipping through his fingers.

He grabbed his phone from his pocket, dialing his assistant.

"Track my wife's phone GPS," Dawson roared into the receiver. "Find out exactly where she is right now."