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.

Aubree stared through the open car door, her eyes locked on the figure standing at the top of the stone steps.

It was a woman wearing a flowing white silk dress. Her blonde hair was perfectly styled, blowing gently in the ocean breeze. It was Allyson Pennington. Godfrey's former fiancée.

Godfrey saw her too. The dark, violent storm that had been brewing in his eyes all morning completely vanished. His face relaxed.

He stepped out of the car and walked quickly up the steps.

Allyson smiled brightly. She opened her arms wide as he approached.

Godfrey wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her close, and pressed a natural, lingering kiss to her cheek.

Aubree forced her stiff legs to move. She climbed out of the car, her high heels sinking slightly into the gravel. Her ankle rolled, sending a sharp pain up her calf, but she caught her balance.

Neither Godfrey nor Allyson looked back at her. She followed them up the steps like an unwanted servant carrying luggage.

They walked into the massive, double-height living room. Genevieve, Godfrey's mother, was sitting on a tufted velvet sofa, holding a teacup.

When Genevieve saw Allyson, she stood up immediately. A massive smile broke across her face.

"My dear girl," Genevieve said, reaching out to grab both of Allyson's hands. "It is so wonderful to see you."

Aubree stopped at the edge of the Persian rug. She stood perfectly still, keeping her hands clasped tightly in front of her stomach.

Genevieve shifted her gaze. Her smile dropped instantly when she saw Aubree. She looked Aubree up and down, her eyes lingering on the dark tweed dress.

"That color makes you look like an old widow," Genevieve said, her voice dripping with disdain.

Aubree lowered her chin. She raised her hands and signed, Good afternoon, Mother.

Genevieve rolled her eyes and turned her head away. "Stop waving your hands at me. I do not understand those monkey gestures."

Aubree's hands froze in the air. A hot flush of deep humiliation burned her cheeks. She slowly lowered her arms back to her sides.

Allyson linked her arm through Genevieve's. "The art exhibition in Paris was exhausting, but the gallery sold out," Allyson said, her voice smooth and sweet, completely ignoring the tension.

Genevieve laughed, patting Allyson's arm.

Godfrey handed his suit jacket to a waiting butler. He stood near the fireplace, watching Allyson with a soft, attentive expression Aubree had never received.

Aubree felt completely invisible. She took a small step backward, planning to slip away into the hallway and hide in a guest room.

"Aubree," Allyson called out suddenly.

Aubree stopped.

Allyson walked over to her, her heels clicking loudly against the marble floor. She stopped right in front of Aubree and tilted her head, her eyes locking onto Aubree's neck.

"Oh my," Allyson said, raising her voice so it carried across the entire room. "Are you having an allergic reaction? Your neck is covered in awful red marks."

Godfrey's head snapped toward them. His face darkened instantly. He stared at the bruises he had violently left on her skin the night before, his jaw clenching. He thought she had intentionally done a poor job covering them up to mark her territory.

Genevieve let out a harsh scoff. "The daughter of a bankrupt fraud always has cheap, sensitive skin."

Aubree bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper. Her eyes burned with unshed tears, but she refused to let them fall.

Allyson turned around and looked at Godfrey, batting her eyelashes innocently.

"Anyway," Allyson smiled, "I have some wonderful news. I am moving back to New York permanently."