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.

Guthrie pointed his heavy cane directly at the divorce papers on the table. The thick veins on the back of his hand bulged with absolute fury.

Gerard stepped in front of the table. "Grandfather, you do not understand. We have irreconcilable differences. It is better for both of us if we-"

A loud, sharp slap cut off his sentence.

Guthrie struck Gerard across the face with his open hand. The sound was crisp and brutal in the quiet living room.

Adaline gasped. Without thinking, she stepped forward and placed herself between Gerard and the angry old man. The protective gesture was entirely instinctual.

Guthrie saw her move to shield his grandson. The intense rage in his eyes softened just a fraction.

Gerard looked at the thin back of the woman standing in front of him. A flash of shock crossed his face, quickly replaced by a dark, complicated shadow.

Guthrie banged his cane on the floor again. "The Crosby family trust is very clear, Gerard. If you divorce, you lose your voting rights as CEO. You lose control of the board. Are you willing to throw away the empire for some petty argument?"

Gerard clenched his jaw. His hands curled into tight fists at his sides. The Wall Street board was already looking for a reason to push him out. He knew his grandfather was not making an empty threat.

Guthrie turned his attention to Adaline. His tone dropped, becoming surprisingly gentle. "Tell me the truth, Adaline. IIs he having an affair with another woman outside? Is he mistreating you?"

Adaline felt Gerard's intense, warning gaze burning into the back of her head. Her stomach cramped violently, but she forced her facial muscles into a perfect, polite smile.

She reached back and wrapped her hand around Gerard's arm. "No, Grandfather. There is no one else. Gerard has just been working too much. We had a stupid fight. I printed those papers to scare him. We were never going to sign them."

Gerard immediately wrapped his arm around her waist. His fingers dug into her side, applying just enough pressure to warn her to keep playing along. He pulled her close, creating a picture of a unified couple.

Guthrie let out a cold snort. "Do not insult my intelligence. I know a lie when I hear one. I am staying here to supervise you two until I am satisfied this marriage is stable."

He turned to his butler. "Bruno. Go check the master bedroom. Make sure they are actually sleeping in the same bed."

Adaline's blood ran cold. A layer of cold sweat broke out on her forehead. She slept in the guest room. All her clothes, her personal items, and most importantly, her cancer medication, were hidden in the guest room nightstand.

Gerard felt her body go completely rigid against his side. He leaned down and whispered into her ear. "Let me handle it."

He let go of her and walked quickly toward the hallway before Bruno could move. He stepped into the guest room, grabbed Adaline's pillows, her silk pajamas, and her hairbrush, and threw them onto the massive bed in the master suite.

Bruno walked in a minute later. He scanned the room, noted the two sets of pillows and the mixed items, and walked back out. "Everything appears normal, sir."

Guthrie looked slightly less angry. "Fine. We will have lunch together. I remember that seafood risotto you made for me last Thanksgiving," Guthrie said, his tone softening slightly. "Bruno, have the kitchen prepare the finest ingredients. Adaline, I want you to go down and supervise the chef. Guide them through your recipe. I have a craving for that exact taste today."

Adaline's heart sank. The cancer had destroyed her ability to tolerate strong smells. Even just standing near the prep station, the scent of raw seafood would make her violently ill. But she had no choice. She smiled and nodded. "Of course, Grandfather."

She walked into the open-concept kitchen. The private chef had already laid out fresh shrimp and scallops on the counter, waiting for her instructions. Wanting to finish this as quickly as possible, Adaline stepped closer to inspect the ingredients. The intense, briny smell of the raw seafood hit her nose.

Her face turned chalk-white. She dropped the knife and gripped the edge of the marble counter, fighting the overwhelming urge to vomit.

Gerard walked into the kitchen to get a glass of water. He saw her swaying on her feet, looking like she was about to pass out. He frowned deeply. He walked over, bumped her out of the way with his hip, and picked up the knife.

"Stop playing the victim in front of him," he muttered under his breath. He began awkwardly peeling the shrimp, his expensive suit cuffs getting stained with seafood juice.

Adaline watched the billionaire CEO, a man who never stepped foot in a kitchen, doing prep work just to save his stock options. A bitter smile touched her lips.

An hour later, they sat at the dining table. Guthrie watched them like a hawk. "Gerard, peel a shrimp for your wife."

Gerard picked up a cooked shrimp. His long fingers pulled off the shell. He placed the meat directly onto Adaline's plate. "Eat it." His eyes dared her to refuse.

Adaline stared at the shrimp. Her stomach churned. She picked up her fork, forced the meat into her mouth, and swallowed.

The reaction was instantaneous. A violent wave of nausea ripped through her body. She slapped her hand over her mouth, pushed her chair back so hard it crashed to the floor, and sprinted toward the first-floor powder room.

Guthrie froze. He stared at the empty doorway. Then, a massive, joyful smile broke across his wrinkled face. He turned to Gerard. "Is she pregnant?"

Gerard looked like he had been struck by lightning. His face twisted into an expression of pure horror. He knew for a fact he had not touched his wife in two years.

In the bathroom, Adaline fell to her knees and vomited everything into the toilet. When she finally stopped, she saw a thin streak of bright red blood mixed in the water.

A sudden, paralyzing chill gripped her heart, far colder than the marble floor beneath her. The blood was a glaring, undeniable siren that her body was deteriorating faster than she had anticipated. The sheer terror of her own mortality crashed over her, suffocating her more than Gerard's cruel accusations ever could. She knew her time was slipping through her fingers like sand. Trembling, she closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the cold porcelain, trying to steady her erratic breathing. But amidst the fear for her own life, another dreadful realization dawned on her. She knew exactly what the old man was thinking out there. This misunderstanding was going to drag her straight into hell.