Chapter 5

Coralie's heels crunched against the gravel driveway. She reached the heavy mahogany front door and punched in the security code.

The lock clicked. The door swung open, revealing the cavernous, suffocating darkness of the foyer. The silence of the massive house pressed down on her eardrums.

She didn't reach for the light switch to turn on the crystal chandelier. She let the pale moonlight spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows guide her.

Coralie kicked off her painful stilettos. Her bare feet hit the freezing hardwood floor. The cold grounded her.

She walked straight up the grand staircase to the second floor and pushed open the door to the master bedroom.

The heavy scent of Cale's cedarwood and bergamot cologne hit her face. It made her stomach churn.

She walked past the massive king-sized bed and entered the walk-in closet. She bypassed the rows of designer gowns and diamond jewelry Cale had bought her to play the part.

Coralie pulled open the bottom drawer. She dragged out a plain, black canvas duffel bag.

She moved mechanically. She shoved a few pairs of jeans, some plain sweaters, her passport, and her toothbrush into the bag.

Just as she yanked the zipper shut, the roar of a powerful engine shattered the quiet night. Blinding headlights swept across the bedroom walls.

Coralie walked to the window. She pulled back the edge of the heavy silk curtain.

Cale's black Maybach was parked haphazardly, one tire resting on the manicured grass near the fountain.

The driver's door swung open. Cale stepped out. He stumbled, his expensive leather shoes slipping on the damp grass.

He had clearly gone to another bar. His tie was gone. His shirt was untucked, and his suit jacket hung off one shoulder. He looked sloppy. Defeated.

Coralie watched him trip over the curb. She felt absolutely nothing. No pity. No urge to run down and help him. It was almost comical.

The heavy front door slammed shut downstairs. Heavy, uncoordinated footsteps pounded up the wooden stairs.

Coralie kicked the duffel bag deep into the shadows beneath the bed. She walked over to the single armchair in the corner of the room and sat down, crossing her legs.

The bedroom door crashed open. The bright light from the hallway flooded in, illuminating Cale's bloodshot eyes and flushed face.

He squinted against the darkness of the room. He spotted Coralie sitting in the chair. He let out a slurred, heavy grunt.

Cale stumbled toward the bed. He collapsed face-first onto the mattress, groaning as he yanked at his collar.

For three years, this was the cue. Coralie would rush to the bathroom, wet a warm towel, wipe his face, and hand him a glass of water and aspirin.

Tonight, Cale lay there for two full minutes. The only sound in the room was his ragged, alcohol-laced breathing.

He frowned, his eyes still closed. He gritted his teeth.

"Water," he croaked, his voice a harsh, demanding rasp.

Coralie didn't move a muscle. She sat in the shadows, staring at the man on the bed as if studying a stranger.

When the water didn't arrive, Cale's eyes snapped open. He pushed himself up on his elbows, his face twisting in anger. He glared at the armchair.

"Are you deaf?" Cale barked, his words slurring slightly. "Can't you see I'm drunk? Get me water."

Coralie stood up slowly. Her voice cut through the stale air, sharp and cold.

"I am not your maid, Cale."

Cale froze. His alcohol-soaked brain struggled to process the words. He stared at her, genuinely confused by this sudden rebellion.

Coralie didn't say another word. She turned her back on him and walked toward the bedroom door.

"Where do you think you're going?" Cale roared at her back. "Stop right there!"

Coralie paused in the doorway. She didn't look back.

"The air in here is filthy," she said flatly. "I'm sleeping in the guest room."

She stepped out into the hallway and pulled the door shut. The heavy wood clicked into place, cutting off his angry shouts and the smell of his whiskey.