Secret Wife is A Hero

The Baccarat crystal tumbler shattered in Culver Lancaster's grip. Shards embedded themselves into his palm, but he ignored the blood. The drug moving through his veins made his hands shake uncontrollably.

"Eclipse." That's what the street chemists called it, a new synthetic. Someone had slipped it into his scotch.

Julian Banks was already moving, the Chief of Staff slammed his hand against the biometric panel on the wall. The heavy, bulletproof doors of the penthouse office hissed shut.

"Sir." Julian's voice was calm.

Culver clawed at his tie, he needed release. The drug was an aphrodisiac weaponized to destroy logic.

"Get me..." Culver gasped, his knees hitting the carpet. "A woman. Now."

Julian didn't flinch, he looked at his watch. "An escort is a blackmail risk. A staff member is a lawsuit."

Culver dragged himself toward the leather sofa. "I don't care. Just get someone."

Julian pulled a burner phone from his jacket pocket and dialed.

"Handler," Julian said. "I have a Code Black, I need an asset deployed, the Ghost Protocol."

There was a pause on the other end.

"I don't care about the extraction fee," Julian snapped. "I'm sending the chopper to the designated coordinates. Have her ready in ten minutes, and make sure she's on a chemical leash. "

Julian hung up and walked over to Culver. He pulled a syringe from a hidden medical kit. "This is a sedative, Culver. It won't stop the effects, but it will buy us two hours to get you to the estate."

At the facility, Arla Reid woke up as a technician grabbed her jaw.

"Asset 7 is active," the technician barked. He checked her mouth for contraband. "System is clean, prep for transport."

They clipped her into a harness and dressed her in a simple black gown. Arla tried to stand her ground, but the suppressants made her muscles weak. They dragged her down the corridor to the exit.

A man stood there, checking his cufflinks. He looked at her legs, assessing her structure.

"The file," the technician said, handing over a tablet. "Vocal cords temporarily paralyzed, retrograde amnesia, no next of kin."

"Perfect," the man said. "Untraceable."

Julian signed the transfer document, two massive men hoisted Arla up and carried her to the waiting helicopter.

They threw her into the back seat. Julian climbed in opposite her, opening a tablet and ignoring her.

The helicopter lifted. Arla stared out the window, trying to speak, but only a rasping hiss came out.

Julian didn't look up. "Be quiet. If you want to survive the night, you will be silent."

They flew over the Long Island Sound toward a massive estate on the coastline.

Arla was shoved into the underground prep room, two guards took positions at the door while three maids entered, the head maid ripped the black transport gown down the front.

Arla backed away until she hit the wall.

"Do not resist," the head maid said. "Or we will sedate you."

Arla stopped moving, she dropped her arms.

They pushed her under a spray of hot water, used stiff brushes and antiseptic wash, scrubbing her skin until it turned red. One of the younger maids paused when she saw the scars on Arla's back, but the head maid shook her head. They kept scrubbing.

They washed her hair and checked her mouth again. When the water stopped, they draped a heavy black silk robe over her wet body. No underwear.

"He doesn't like barriers," the head maid muttered, tying the sash tight.

The door opened, Julian walked in. "Five minutes."

Arla stared at him.

Julian tapped his earpiece. "Status? Understood." He looked at Arla. "Go in there, do whatever he wants, don't fight him."

He sprayed a mist of perfume over her, then grabbed her arm and marched her out. They walked through the corridors and stopped in front of a double mahogany door. The sound of glass shattering came from inside.

The guard unlocked the door.

"Good luck," Julian said. He pushed her inside.

The door slammed shut behind her. The lock clicked.

The room was lit only by moonlight, furniture was overturned. In the corner, Culver Lancaster sat in a high-backed armchair.

He was breathing heavily, his shirt torn open, he held a shard of glass, blood dripping from his palm. He looked up, his eyes red.

"Come here," he rasped.

Arla shook her head and took a step back against the door.

Culver stood up, crossed the room in two strides. His hand wrapped around her throat, lifting her off the ground and slamming her against the wood.

"Who sent you?" he snarled. "Which paper? Which board member?"

Arla clawed at his wrist, kicking her legs.

The black spots in Arla's vision were merging into a curtain.

A tear leaked from the corner of her eye, it rolled down her cheek and landed on the back of Culver's hand.

The sensation seemed to shock him, he flinched, as if the tear were acid.

His grip loosened.

Arla dropped to the floor, her throat made a terrible, wheezing sound.

Culver stood over her, swaying slightly. The drug was still pulsing through him, warping his reality, but the physical contact had grounded him momentarily.

"Speak," he commanded. "Which paper are you with? Did my father send you?"

Arla looked up, her eyes were red-rimmed, filled with terror. She opened her mouth, tried to form the words I don't know, but her vocal cords just vibrated uselessly.

Culver frowned. He crouched down, grabbing her chin roughly, tilted her head back into the moonlight.

"Open," he ordered.

She didn't resist. Even in the dim light, he saw the faint, pale lines deep in her throat-not the jagged scarring of a weapon, but the tell-tale signs of chronic inflammation, as if from a chemical agent.

"Mute," he murmured.

She wasn't an assassin.

The heat in his blood surged again. He needed release.

He grabbed her arm and hauled her up, threw her toward the bed.

Arla landed on the mattress, bouncing once. She scrambled backward, trying to get to the other side, but Culver caught her ankle. He dragged her back down the expanse of the bed.

The silk robe had come loose. It slipped off her shoulders, pooling at her waist.

Culver paused. His gaze traced the landscape of her back. The moonlight highlighted every ridge, every old wound.

"You're a mess," he said. His voice was thick. He ran a finger down a long, pale scar on her spine.

He climbed over her.

Arla flipped onto her back, pushing at his chest. She scratched him, drawing lines of blood across his shoulders.

The pain seemed to focus him, he didn't pull away. He lowered his head and bit down on the soft skin where her neck met her shoulder.

It wasn't a kiss, it was a claim.

Arla stopped fighting. She went limp, staring up at the ceiling, dissociating from the body that was being used.

Culver watched her eyes the whole time. He was looking for something-fear, judgment, recognition. He found none of it, just a vast, empty silence.

When it was over, Arla curled into a ball on the far edge of the bed, pulling the torn robe around herself.

Culver reached for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. The flame of the lighter flared, illuminating his sharp profile. He took a drag, exhaling a cloud of grey smoke.

He picked up the internal phone.

"Julian," he said. "Come in."

Arla squeezed her eyes shut. This was it. The disposal.