Chapter 5

The SUV tires crunched violently against the gravel driveway of the Long Island estate.

Before the driver could even put the car in park, Finley shoved the door open. She stumbled out into the cold night air and ran up the steps into the grand foyer.

The massive crystal chandelier cast a harsh light over the marble floor. Arthur, the butler, stood at the bottom of the sweeping staircase, dressed in his immaculate tailcoat.

"Arthur!" Finley yelled, her voice echoing off the high ceilings. "Prepare the guest room at the absolute end of the east wing. I am not sleeping in the same room as that tyrant."

Arthur looked pained. He gave a slight bow and held out an iPad.

Finley snatched it. A video message from Benton was paused on the screen. She hit play.

Benton sat in his hospital bed, an oxygen tube taped to his face. His voice was weak but razor-sharp. "If the staff reports that you two are sleeping in separate rooms, I will freeze every liquid asset in your trust fund immediately."

Finley's breath hitched. She stared at the screen, her chest tightening with a suffocating rage. She threw the iPad onto the thick Persian rug.

"You're all in on it!" she screamed at the empty hall.

The front doors opened. Haiden walked in. He shrugged off his jacket, which reeked of the club's stale alcohol, and handed it to a maid. He looked at Finley, his lips curving into a cruel, mocking smile.

He stepped close to her, lowering his voice so only she could hear. "If you want your money, play the good wife. Let's go to bed."

Finley bit her lower lip so hard she tasted blood. She had no choice. She turned and stomped up the stairs, each step heavy with defeat.

She slammed the master bedroom door open. The room was massive, decorated in Haiden's cold, minimalist style. It felt like a prison cell.

Finley marched straight into the en-suite bathroom, locked the door, and turned the shower on scalding hot. She stood under the spray until her skin turned red, trying to scrub away the humiliation of being carried out of the club like a child.

Half an hour later, she stepped out, wrapped tightly in a thick white bathrobe.

Haiden was sitting in the leather armchair by the window, his laptop balanced on his knees. He was typing rapidly, his face illuminated by the screen.

Finley marched to the linen closet, yanked out a spare duvet, and threw it aggressively onto the long leather sofa.

"I'm sleeping here," she announced.

Haiden's fingers paused on the keyboard for a fraction of a second. He didn't look up. "Suit yourself. But you will be in the bed when the maids come to clean tomorrow morning."

Finley scoffed. She wrapped herself in the duvet like a cocoon and turned her back to him, staring at the dark wall. Her mind raced with the events of the day.

"Did I ruin your plans tonight?" Finley threw the words over her shoulder, dripping with venom. "Is that why you're so mad? Because you couldn't go to the hospital to hold your little whore's hand?"

The sound of typing stopped instantly.

The silence in the room became thick, heavy, and terrifying.

Haiden shut his laptop with a sharp snap. He stood up. Finley heard his slow, heavy footsteps approaching the sofa.

He stood over her. The shadow of his broad shoulders swallowed her completely.

"Do not push me, Finley," he said, his voice dropping to a lethal, freezing pitch. "There are things you do not understand, and things you do not deserve to know."

A shiver ran down Finley's spine. She pulled the duvet tighter around her neck, squeezing her eyes shut, and refused to say another word.

Hours passed. The antique grandfather clock in the hall chimed 3:00 AM.

Finley's breathing had finally evened out. She was fast asleep on the sofa.

Haiden sat up in the massive king-sized bed. He threw off the covers and walked silently across the thick carpet.

The moonlight spilled through the window, illuminating her face. She looked exhausted, the harsh lines of her defensive mask finally gone.

His eyes dropped to her exposed calf. The cut from the shattered glass had scabbed over, looking angry and red against her pale skin.

Haiden's jaw tightened. A flash of raw, painful regret crossed his eyes.

He walked to the master bathroom and returned with a first-aid kit. He knelt on the floor beside the sofa. His massive hands were incredibly gentle as he dabbed a cotton swab in iodine.

He pressed it to the cut.

Finley whimpered in her sleep, her leg twitching away from the sting.

Haiden stopped immediately. He leaned in close and blew softly on the wound, cooling the burning sensation until she settled back into sleep.

He bandaged the cut. Then, he slid his arms under her body and lifted her effortlessly from the sofa. He carried her to the bed and laid her down on the soft mattress, pulling the covers up to her chin.

Suddenly, the phone on his nightstand lit up. It vibrated violently against the wood.

Haiden snatched it before it could make a sound. The caller ID read: Dr. Albright.

He glanced at Finley, then walked quickly out to the balcony, sliding the glass door shut behind him.

"Speak," Haiden said, his voice low.

"Mr. Mitchell," the doctor sounded panicked. "Clara is crashing. We need you to sign the emergency surgical consent forms immediately."

Haiden's grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles cracked. "I'm on my way."

He hung up. He looked through the glass at Finley sleeping peacefully in his bed. He grabbed his coat and walked out into the night.