The underground private club in Manhattan was a sensory overload of heavy bass and expensive perfume. Adaline sat at the dimly lit bar, wearing a black velvet dress that exposed her shoulder blades. She lifted a shot of tequila and swallowed it in one go. The spicy liquid burned a path down her throat, irritating her fragile stomach lining, but the physical burn was a welcome distraction.

A few young Asian executives from Wall Street whispered nearby, their eyes scanning her like prey. Adaline ignored them. A man in a tailored suit approached and offered to buy her next drink. She gave him a cold look and shook her head. She stood up, her head spinning slightly, and walked toward the hallway leading to the restrooms.

As she passed the staircase, a muffled crash of glass from a VIP room on the second floor stopped her in her tracks. A low curse followed.

Adaline's heart slammed against her ribs. It was Gerard's voice.

She crept up the stairs and moved quietly down the carpeted hallway. She stopped outside the heavy door of the VIP room. It was slightly cracked open. She peeked through the narrow gap.

Gerard was slumped against a leather sofa. He was pulling at his tie, his chest heaving as he gasped for air. His face was flushed red, and sweat dripped down his temples.

Sitting across from him was Frederick Whitney, his biggest rival in the corporate sector. Frederick was smiling. "That whiskey should hit your bloodstream any second now, Gerard. Let us see how the board reacts when the photos of you and the girls get leaked tomorrow morning."

Adaline's blood ran cold. Gerard had been drugged. Frederick was setting up a trap to ruin his reputation and steal the upcoming merger deal.

Her first instinct was to call the police. But she stopped. If the police raided this club, the scandal would still hit the news. The Crosby family stock would plummet at the opening bell.

Frederick stood up and walked toward the door. "I will go get the entertainment ready."

Adaline quickly stepped back and pressed herself into the dark shadows of an alcove. Frederick walked past her without noticing, heading toward the back stairs.

The second he was gone, Adaline rushed to the VIP room door, slipped inside, and locked it behind her.

Gerard's eyes were bloodshot. He could not focus his vision. He let out a low, furious growl like a trapped animal. "Get the hell out of here."

Adaline ran to him. She clamped her hand over his mouth. "Be quiet. I am getting you out of here."

Gerard struggled, but then he stopped. He inhaled deeply. The familiar scent of cedar mixed with tequila filled his senses. The violent rage in his body quieted for a fraction of a second.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway outside. High heels clicking against the floorboards. Frederick was coming back with the women.

Adaline grabbed Gerard's arm and pulled him up. He was incredibly heavy. She dragged him toward the back of the room and pushed open the concealed staff door that she knew led to the service corridors.

They stumbled into the narrow, unlit hallway. Gerard's body heat was terrifying. He felt like he was burning alive from the inside out. He leaned heavily against Adaline, almost crushing her against the concrete wall.

The drug took full control. Gerard lost all sense of reality. He slammed Adaline against the cold wall, pinning her in place.

His hot mouth crashed down against her neck. His kisses were frantic, messy, and driven by pure chemical need. He let out a ragged, painful breath against her skin.

Adaline's heart hammered in her chest. She pushed against his solid chest. "Gerard, stop. Wake up."

He did not hear her. His strength was overwhelming. He grabbed both of her wrists and pinned them above her head with one hand. His eyes were completely dark, filled with a primal need to consume.

He reached for the neckline of her dress. Just as his fingers hooked into the fabric, the heavy metal security door at the end of the hall groaned open. A beam from a flashlight swept across the floor.

Adaline panicked. She leaned forward and bit down hard on Gerard's shoulder.

Gerard flinched. The sharp pain pierced through the fog in his brain just enough to make him loosen his grip.

Adaline grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the exit door before the security guard could spot them. They burst out into the underground parking garage that connected the club to The Obsidian Hotel next door.

She pulled out her keys, planning to shove him into her Porsche. But Gerard suddenly collapsed against the hood of a parked car. He curled into a tight ball, clutching his chest. The drug was pushing his heart rate to a dangerous limit.

She could not drive him like this. He needed to lie down immediately. Adaline dragged him toward the private elevator reserved for hotel VIPs. The Obsidian was a flagship property under the Crosby empire, and as the CEO's wife, her black card granted her emergency access to any vacant room. She pulled it out and swiped it. The doors opened, and she hauled him inside. She pressed the button for the penthouse suite, knowing it was kept strictly off the public registry for their family's private use.

The elevator shot upward. The sudden shift in gravity made Gerard sicker. He wrapped his arms around Adaline, burying his face in her neck, holding onto her like she was the only thing keeping him alive.

The doors dinged open. Adaline dragged him down the silent hallway and pushed open the door to the massive Obsidian suite. She kicked the door shut behind them.

Before she could even reach for the light switch, Gerard moved. He spun her around and pushed her hard against the thick carpet. The drug completely erased the last of his restraint. The room was pitch black, and there was no escape.

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.

At nine in the morning, harsh sunlight pierced through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse suite. Gerard sat up, pressing the heels of his hands against his pounding temples. His head felt like it was splitting open.

He looked around. His brain was completely blank. Then he saw the tangled sheets. He saw the torn strips of black velvet on the floor. The fragmented memories of the night before rushed into his mind like a speeding train. The suffocating heat. The desperate need. The soft skin beneath his hands.

He threw off the heavy duvet. He looked around the massive suite. It was empty. The only thing left behind was a faint, lingering scent of cedar in the air.

Gerard's face turned dark. He grabbed his phone from the nightstand and dialed a secure number. "Cecil. Get a security team to my suite at The Obsidian. Now. You have five minutes."

While he waited, Gerard walked into the bathroom. He checked the sink, the shower, the trash can. Nothing. The woman had cleaned up perfectly. She did not leave a single hair behind.

His business instincts kicked in. A woman looking for a payout would have stayed in the bed, waiting for him to wake up. She would have taken pictures. This woman ran away and erased her tracks. The mystery of her sudden disappearance ignited a fierce, burning curiosity in his chest.

Cecil Dillon, his head of security, arrived with three men. They began a sweep of the room, looking for fingerprints or DNA.

Gerard stood by the window, looking out at the city. He closed his eyes and tried to remember. The drug had blinded him, but his hands remembered. He remembered the curve of her spine. He remembered the raised ink on her lower back.

A butterfly.

He turned to Cecil. "Lock down the hotel. Get the security footage from the lobby, the garage, and the elevators from last night to this morning."

Cecil looked nervous. "Sir, the security footage from the VIP floors and the private garage is practically useless," he reported, swallowing hard. "The woman was wearing a dark coat and kept her head down the entire time. She perfectly navigated the blind spots of the high-definition cameras in the hallways, moving with the precision of a ghost. By the time she reached the garage, the heavy fog and the angle of her car's visor completely obscured her face. It is almost as if she knew exactly where every lens was pointing."

Gerard slammed his fist into the wall. The drywall cracked under the impact. "I do not care what it takes! Find the woman with the butterfly tattoo on her lower back. Turn the city upside down if you have to."

Meanwhile, back at the Manhattan penthouse, Adaline was standing in her closet. She pulled a thick, high-necked wool sweater over her head, making sure the fabric completely covered the dark bruises on her neck.

The front door unlocked with a loud beep. Gerard walked in. The cold, ruthless energy radiating from him filled the apartment instantly. His eyes were sharp, scanning the room like a hawk looking for prey.

Adaline's stomach tightened. She sat down on the sofa and picked up a business magazine, pretending to read.

Gerard walked over and stood right in front of her. He looked down. His eyes locked onto the high collar of her sweater. He frowned slightly, but the thought passed.

Adaline closed the magazine. She looked up at him with cold eyes. "Where were you all night? Did you enjoy your time with your precious Kena?"

Gerard looked annoyed. He did not answer her. Instead, he reached into his briefcase and pulled out a new folder. He threw it onto the coffee table.

"Sign it. Now. My lawyers are waiting downstairs. We are finishing this today."

Adaline stared at the fresh divorce papers. The memory of his hands on her body just a few hours ago clashed violently with the cold reality of his demand. Her stomach twisted into a painful knot.

She bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste blood. She reached out and picked up the Montblanc pen from the table. She pulled off the cap.

Gerard watched her hand move. A sudden, irrational wave of irritation hit him. He did not want her to sign it so easily. His hand twitched, instinctively wanting to reach out and snatch the pen away.

Before the pen could touch the paper, a deafening roar shook the apartment.

The massive floor-to-ceiling windows rattled. A heavy, rhythmic thumping sound filled the air. Gerard and Adaline both turned their heads toward the terrace.

A sleek black helicopter, painted with the gold crest of the Crosby family, was slowly descending onto the wide outdoor landing pad. The wind from the rotors whipped the patio furniture around.

Gerard's face went completely pale. It was his grandfather's private chopper. Guthrie Fisher.

Gerard lunged forward to grab the divorce papers off the table, but it was too late.

The terrace doors opened. Bruno, the head butler, stepped inside first. His sharp eyes immediately locked onto the legal documents sitting on the table.

Guthrie Fisher walked in behind him. The old man had silver hair, but his posture was straight and intimidating. He slammed his black-and-gold cane against the marble floor. The sharp crack echoed over the dying sound of the helicopter engine.

"Do you think I am dead?" Guthrie roared, his voice shaking the walls. "Do you think you can divorce your wife behind my back, you ungrateful fool?"

Adaline dropped the pen. It hit the floor, spilling dark ink across the white rug. The divorce was officially stopped.