Santos drove me through the rain-slicked streets. Every few minutes, his dark eyes would flick to mine in the rearviewmirror—concerned, disapproving—before returning to the road. I knew he was just against this idea as he’d been earlier, and had been told to keep me away, but his loyalty to me ultimately outweighed his reluctance.
The Orpheum stood like obsidian against the skyline, his largest masterpiece. Santos pulled right up to the valet and wasted no time putting the SUV in park, opening my door before the young guy working had a chance to.
I flashed him a smile and ignored the line of people waiting to be let inside. Security on shift averted their eyes as I passed, making no move to stop me. Santos kept pace at my side, his whispered protests brushing my ear.
"Mrs. Kostas," he murmured, tension threading his voice. "At least let me inform—."
"Selene, Sans. You call me, Selene or El. I don't care if we're in public. And there's no need for that; we both know his calendar is clear now."
He fell silent, now trailing me like a reluctant shadow reflected in the glass doors as I pushed my way into the club. The music slammed into me, overwhelming in its intensity. Crimson and amber lights pulsed over writhing bodies.
I took the long way and through the crowd, I caught Cassian's gaze of all people.
He lurked in the shadows near the west bar, amber liquid swirling in his glass as our eyes locked across the room. His expression hardened into a protective scowl I knew too well. He muttered something to whoever stood beside him and cut through the crowd in my direction, but the sea of bodies between us swallowed his progress.
Thank God. If anyone could derail my mission with a well-placed hand on my shoulder and reasonable words, it would be him.
In record timing, I bypassed the elevators and slipped into the restricted corridor, heading to the door at the end. With quick, efficient movements, I used the keypad for the stairwell access. The numbers glowed blue beneath my touch. Behind me, Santos swore under his breath but trailed after me when I shoved through the heavy steel door.
At the top landing, another security panel surrendered to my familiar code. The door clicked open like it recognized me. The executive level greeted me with silence—the bass from below reduced to a distant heartbeat, the soft carpet swallowing my footsteps.
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, city lights blurred against darkened glass. I moved down the corridor toward the obsidian door at its end that led to a suite of sorts, my own pulse drowning out the tap of my heels.
As I drew closer, the music below became fainter, and I could pick up my husband’s voice. That same voice that had made countless promises, my favorite midnight whisper, was speaking to another woman.
"Wait.Fuck."Came before an exaggerated moan that floated through the door and had my body turning to stone.
Santos' hand touched my arm. "Selene," he murmured quietly, "let's go. Please. Whatever that is you don’t need to see it."
That’s where he was wrong, because even as my feet remained rooted to the carpet, and a small voice in my head was telling me to run back down the stairs, out of the club, and go home to my baby boy’s innocent warmth, IknewI wouldn’t be running away from this.
Ironically, I could thank my husband for making me believe I no longer had to cower or hide from anything.
I gently removed Santo’s hand, the large stone on my wedding ring catching the dim light as my hand trembled. Ipushed toward the door, my heart splitting in two with each step as the sounds within the room became clearer.
The private suite corridor stretched before me like a throat, swallowing light except for the amber glow seeping from recessed strips along the baseboards. My heels dangled from my fingers, the red soles like fresh wounds against my pale skin. Every nerve ending in my body screamed alert as I slipped into the entryway, the marble floor cold and unforgiving beneath my bare feet.
Santos moved behind me with the silent precision of a shadow, his breath a ghost against my neck.
The bedroom door stood closed, a slab of polished ebony that seemed to pulse with unspoken warnings.
I crept forward, each step measured and deliberate, the silk of my dress whispering against my thighs. My heartbeat hammered in my ears, drowning out even the distant thrum of bass from the club below. Santos hovered at my shoulder, his body coiled tight as a spring.
The bar area glowed ahead—not the intimate amber dimness Alaric preferred when we were together, but harsh, clinical brightness. The kind of light that left nowhere to hide, that he demanded when he needed to think, to be alone with his thoughts. When no living soul was supposed to intrude.
I rounded the corner, my fingers clenching around my shoes. I remained frozen only for a second when I turned the corner, but it felt as if time moved in slow motion. Two silhouettes seared into my vision like hot brands, my brain refusing to process what my eyes couldn’t deny.
A broad-shouldered figure—my husband—stood near the breakfast bar. Before him, a woman knelt on the floor, her spine arched in perfect submission only years of practice could perfect,her red-tipped fingers digging into his thighs as her head bobbed with savage, hungry purpose.
Her hair cascaded over her shoulders. Her dress—fitted cream silk that clung to every curve, riding up her thighs with each movement.
Danielle.
Her head dipped, taking him into her mouth. Her lips wrapped around his dick like she’d been born to suck cock. Her cheeks hollowed as she sucked with a desperation that should’ve been illegal.
The wet, obscene sounds of her throat working echoed in the silent room, her body convulsing slightly before pushing forward again with renewed determination. Her free hand disappeared beneath the bunched fabric between her trembling thighs, wrist working in frantic circles as she pleasured herself. Her muffled moans vibrated around him.
My lungs seized, vision narrowing to pinpricks of light.
