Godfrey stood under the showerhead, letting the freezing water hit his back. He braced his hands against the wet tile, his head hanging low.

A sudden, unnatural heat flared in the pit of his stomach. It was not the warmth of the alcohol. It was a sharp, burning sensation that quickly spread outward, rushing through his veins like liquid fire.

He reached out and twisted the faucet, shutting the water off completely. He stood in the dripping silence, his chest heaving as he gasped for air.

The heat intensified. His muscles tightened, and a heavy, thick fog began to cloud his brain. He recognized this feeling. It was a chemical reaction. The smoothie.

He grabbed a white towel off the rack and wrapped it tightly around his waist. He shoved the bathroom door open, the wood hitting the wall with a loud crack.

He marched into the bedroom. Aubree was standing by the bed, pulling the duvet up to smooth out the wrinkles.

Godfrey crossed the room in seconds. He reached out and grabbed the back of her neck. His fingers dug into her skin, his grip completely unforgiving.

Aubree let out a silent gasp. She twisted her body, her eyes wide with pure terror as she looked up at his bloodshot eyes.

He threw her forward. She landed hard on the center of the massive mattress, her body bouncing slightly against the expensive springs.

Godfrey turned to the nightstand. He yanked the top drawer open so hard it nearly fell off its tracks. He reached inside and pulled out a small, partially opened square box.

It was a box of condoms with a broken safety seal.

He held it up to the overhead light, his eyes narrowing as he inspected the shiny foil wrapper he pulled from inside. He turned it slowly.

There, near the top edge, was a tiny, almost invisible prick. A needle hole.

Godfrey felt a violent, uncontrollable energy explode inside his chest. The dark storm he kept hidden from the world surged forward, fueled by the strange chemical fire in his system and the physical evidence in his hand. The herbal detox blend she had made had never reacted like this before, but mixed with the sheer volume of aged whiskey he had consumed, it had created a volatile, blood-heating cocktail.

He threw the foil packet directly at Aubree's face. It hit her cheek and bounced onto the white sheets.

"Is this how desperate you are?" he roared, his voice shaking the windows. "You spike my drink and poke holes in the protection just to get your filthy hands on the trust fund?"

Aubree looked down at the small foil square. Her pupils dilated in absolute shock. She had never seen that box before. She remembered Genevieve's housekeeper lingering in their bedroom that morning, supposedly dusting the nightstands. The realization hit her like a freight train-Genevieve had planted the tampered box to force the issue of an heir, knowing Godfrey would instantly blame Aubree for the deceit. She had no idea what he was talking about.

She scrambled backward against the headboard. She raised both hands, shaking her head violently. I did not do this. I swear.

Godfrey did not care about her moving hands. The volatile mixture of alcohol and the unexpected chemical reaction from the herbs was completely taking over his nervous system, erasing whatever thin line of control he usually maintained.

He climbed onto the bed, his large knees sinking into the mattress. He grabbed both of her wrists in one hand and slammed them down into the pillows above her head.

His massive body covered hers, pinning her down completely. The weight of his chest crushed the air out of her lungs.

"You want a child so badly?" he hissed, his face buried in the crook of her neck. "Fine. I will give you exactly what you want."

Tears spilled out of Aubree's eyes, running down her temples and soaking into the pillowcases. She shook her head, her body thrashing weakly beneath him.

Godfrey reached down and grabbed the collar of her silk nightgown. He pulled his fist back, tearing the fabric straight down the middle.

The sound of the silk ripping was deafening in the quiet room. The cold air hit her bare skin, making her shiver violently.

He did not wait. He did not prepare her. He forced himself into her with a brutal, punishing thrust.

Aubree arched her back off the mattress. A blinding pain shot through her lower body, tearing her apart. Her mouth opened wide, but her damaged vocal cords refused to produce a single sound.

Godfrey moved with a wild, uncontrollable rhythm. The drug drove his actions, turning the act into pure physical violence.

The heavy wooden bedframe slammed against the wall with every thrust, creating a rhythmic, sickening thud that filled the room.

Aubree squeezed her eyes shut. She bit down on her lower lip so hard that the skin broke. The metallic taste of hot blood filled her mouth, but she kept her teeth locked together, enduring the absolute destruction of her body.

Sweat dripped from Godfrey's forehead, landing on Aubree's pale collarbone. His skin was burning hot against hers.

His eyes were completely unfocused, glazed over by the chemical haze in his bloodstream. His breathing was ragged, sounding like a machine breaking down.

He suddenly dropped his weight forward, burying his face deep into the curve of her neck. His chest expanded rapidly against hers.

His Adam's apple bobbed against her skin. "Allyson," he groaned, his voice thick and hoarse.

Aubree's entire body went completely rigid. Her muscles locked into place as if rigor mortis had set in.

The tearing pain in her lower half vanished, completely overshadowed by the sensation of her heart being thrown into a meat grinder. The organ shattered inside her chest, the pieces cutting into her lungs.

Godfrey finished with a heavy shudder. He rolled off her immediately, his heavy body landing on the mattress beside her.

The only sound in the room was their harsh, uneven breathing.

Slowly, the drug began to lose its peak grip on Godfrey's brain. His eyes blinked rapidly as reality crashed back into him. He sat up abruptly.

He looked down at the ruined sheets, the torn silk, and then at Aubree's completely hollow eyes. She was staring at the ceiling, not blinking, not moving.

A flash of intense disgust crossed his face. He threw the covers off his legs and stood up.

He walked naked across the room toward the bathroom. He did not look back at her. He did not offer a towel.

The bathroom door clicked shut. Seconds later, the loud rush of the showerhead started, as if he needed to scrub a disease off his skin.

Godfrey stood under the showerhead, bracing his hands against the wet tile. The freezing water hit his back, the biting cold making the extensive, jagged network of old, hidden scars stretching across his shoulder blades tighten and ache. He welcomed the sharp sting, using the physical pain to ground his chaotic mind and wash away the lingering heat of the chemical haze.

Aubree forced her elbows to bend. She pushed her upper body off the mattress, her arms shaking violently. She reached out and pulled the torn edge of the blanket over her exposed stomach.

She slid off the edge of the bed. Her legs gave out the second her bare feet touched the carpet. She collapsed onto the floor, her knees hitting the ground hard.

She crawled over to the nightstand. She reached down to the very bottom drawer, the one with the hidden digital lock.

Her bloody fingers punched in a four-digit code. The drawer clicked open. She reached inside and pulled out a worn, leather-bound journal.

She opened the heavy cover. The pages were thick with newspaper clippings, magazine cutouts, and printed articles. Nine years of Godfrey Valentine's life, carefully documented and preserved.

A tear finally broke free, falling onto a faded photograph. It was a picture of a teenage boy playing basketball, taken secretly from the bleachers when she was fifteen years old.

The water in the bathroom suddenly stopped.

Aubree panicked. She shoved the journal back into the drawer, slammed it shut, and scrambled away from the nightstand.

Godfrey walked out of the bathroom, a towel secured around his waist. His hair was dripping wet.

He walked straight to his massive walk-in closet. He pulled out a crisp white dress shirt and a custom-tailored suit.

He began buttoning the shirt, his eyes finally dropping to look at her sitting on the floor. He looked at her as if she were a pile of garbage left on the street.

"Take a pill," he said, his voice completely flat. "Do not infect my bloodline with your trash."

Before Aubree could process the cruelty of his words, the cell phone on the nightstand began to vibrate.

Godfrey picked it up. He saw the caller ID, and his posture instantly straightened. The hostility in his face was replaced by strict obedience.

"Yes, Grandmother," he answered, his tone perfectly controlled.

It was Augusta, the matriarch of the Valentine family. Her voice was loud enough to bleed through the speaker. She demanded that Godfrey and his wife return to the Hamptons estate immediately for the weekend.

Godfrey's knuckles turned white around the phone. His jaw clenched tightly. "Understood. We will be there."

He ended the call and threw the phone onto the bed. He turned his head and glared at Aubree.

"You have ten minutes to make yourself look like a human being," he ordered.

Aubree dragged her aching body off the floor and limped into the massive walk-in closet. Every step sent a sharp pulse of pain through her lower half.

She reached toward a section of soft, cotton loungewear, her fingers brushing against a loose grey sweater.

Godfrey walked up behind her. He snatched the sweater out of her hand and threw it onto the hardwood floor.

He reached into the formal section and pulled out a stiff, heavy Chanel tweed dress. It was a dark, suffocating navy blue.

He shoved the rough fabric into her chest. "Put this on," he commanded.

"Mrs. Valentine does not need to be comfortable," he added coldly. "She needs to be presentable."

Aubree turned around without making a sound. She stripped off the remnants of her torn nightgown and pulled the heavy dress over her head. The stiff fabric scratched against her sensitive skin, the tight waist restricting her breathing.

She walked over to the vanity mirror. She opened a small jar of thick concealer and began dabbing it heavily onto her neck, desperately trying to cover the dark purple bruises and bite marks he had left on her skin.

Ten minutes later, they stepped out of the private elevator into the underground parking garage.

Miles Mercer, Godfrey's executive assistant, was already standing by the open rear door of a black Maybach. He held a tablet in his hand, his face completely devoid of emotion.

Godfrey stepped into the car first, his long legs taking up most of the space in the back seat.

Aubree climbed in after him. She pressed her body flush against the opposite door, trying to put as much physical distance between them as the leather seat would allow.

The heavy door slammed shut. The air inside the cabin instantly felt thick and unbreathable.

The car pulled out of the garage and merged onto the highway heading toward Long Island.

Godfrey opened his laptop and began typing rapidly, completely ignoring her existence.

Aubree turned her head and stared out the tinted window. The trees blurred past. Her stomach cramped violently, twisting into tight knots at the thought of facing his family.

The Maybach suddenly jerked forward as the driver hit the brakes hard. Traffic had come to a dead stop.

Aubree's body pitched forward. Her shoulder brushed against the sleeve of Godfrey's suit jacket.

Godfrey instantly recoiled. He looked down at his sleeve and brushed his hand over the fabric, as if she had just wiped mud on him.

The small, dismissive gesture felt like a physical slap to Aubree's face.

The traffic did not move. Godfrey's breathing started to speed up. The suffocating enclosed space and the stagnant traffic triggered a dark, violent restlessness deep within his chest. A fierce, unyielding pressure built up behind his ribs, demanding immediate release. He gripped the leather armrest so hard the material creaked under the pressure of his white-hot tension, his knuckles turning completely bloodless.

"Pass them," Godfrey barked at the driver, his voice sharp and aggressive. "I do not care about the fines. Get this car moving."

The driver swallowed hard. He jerked the steering wheel, pulling the massive car onto the narrow shoulder of the highway, speeding dangerously past the line of stopped vehicles.

Aubree squeezed her eyes shut. She reached across her chest and gripped the seatbelt with both hands, her heart pounding against her ribs.

Two hours later, the Maybach turned onto a private, tree-lined road in the Hamptons.

The massive iron gates of the Valentine estate slowly swung open. The car crunched over the pristine gravel driveway, heading toward the towering main house.

Godfrey snapped his laptop shut. He turned his head and glared at Aubree. "Fix your face. Stop looking like a corpse."

The car rolled to a smooth stop in front of the grand portico.

The driver got out and opened Aubree's door. She looked up, preparing to step out, but her entire body froze. All the blood drained from her face in an instant.