Chapter Eleven: The Bitter Draught

The morning sun is a cruel intruder, slicing through the heavy curtains of the master suite. I wake up with a start, my body screaming in a dozen different places. 

My skin feels tight, sensitive to the touch of the high-thread-count sheets, and my lower back throbs with a dull, rhythmic ache; a physical souvenir of the stone balustrade and Ethan’s hands.

Beside me, the bed is empty. The indentation in the pillow next to mine tells me Arthur has already risen.

I sit up, clutching the duvet to my chest, and the movement makes me hiss. The stinging heat on my butt hasn't faded; it has settled into a deep, tender soreness. 

I feel marked. I feel used.

I feel like Sapphire, even in Arthur’s bed.

I limp toward the en-suite bathroom, my gait stiff and awkward. 

Every step I take is a reminder of Ethan’s warning: I will spank you until you can't walk. He hadn't quite reached that limit last night, but he had come terrifyingly close.

I catch my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. The diamonds are gone, locked in the safe, but the necklace’s ghost remains in the form of a dark, plum-colored bruise at the base of my throat. It’s dark, angry, and impossible to mistake for anything other than a bite.

"Zola? Are you awake, darling?"

Arthur’s voice through the bedroom door makes me jump so hard I nearly lose my balance.

"Yes!" I call out, my voice raspy. "I’m just... just heading into the shower."

"I’ve had the kitchen prepare a light breakfast on the terrace," he says, his tone warm and unsuspecting. "You seemed so exhausted last night after we got back. You fell asleep before I could even say goodnight."

Guilt, cold and jagged, stabs at my gut. He thinks I was sleeping. He had no idea I was trying to avoid his touch just in case he wanted to make love to me.

Every inch of me is screaming. My skin is tender, my inner thighs are a map of Ethan's possessiveness, and a deep, throbbing ache between my legs.

And I’ve seen what happens when Ethan gets angry. I’m not sure I’d survive it a second time.

"I’ll be down in a moment, Arthur," I say, leaning my forehead against the cool marble of the vanity.

I turn toward the shower, reaching for my silk robe hanging on the back of the door. But it isn’t there.

Instead, draped over the heated towel rack is a small, black lace thong, torn down the side, exactly as it had been when Ethan ripped it off me two weeks ago at the club. Next to it sits a small, hand-written note on heavy cream cardstock.

The handwriting is bold, arrogant, and unmistakable.

I kept the souvenir. Now you keep the memory. Breakfast is at 09:00. Don't be late, or the tax increases.

My breath hitches. He was in here. While Arthur was downstairs, or perhaps while Arthur was in the dressing room, Ethan had slipped into our private sanctuary to leave this... this threat.

He’s showing me that nowhere is safe. Not even the room I share with my husband.

I scramble to hide the torn lace and the note in the bottom of the trash can, covering them with tissues. I scrub my skin until it’s red, trying to wash away the scent of him, but the bruises don't wash off. The soreness doesn't fade.

By the time I make it to the terrace, Arthur is already seated, reading the morning paper. And there, across from him, is Ethan.

He’s dressed in a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his muscular forearms. He’s sipping coffee, looking as calm and refreshed as if he hadn't spent the night committing a crime against his father’s marriage.

"Ah, there she is," Arthur smiles, standing up to pull out my chair. "Sit down, Sweetheart. You’re limping, dear. Did you twist your ankle at the gala?"

I sink into the chair, my teeth gritted against the flash of pain as my butt hits the seat.

"I... I think I just danced too much," I lie, staring at my plate. "My muscles are just a bit stiff."

"You did look quite active on the floor mother," Ethan says, his voice a low, smooth purr. He sets his coffee cup down and leans forward, his grey eyes pinning me to my seat. "Especially toward the end of the evening. You vanished for quite a while, mother. I was worried you’d lost your way in the dark."

I look up, meeting his gaze. There is a predatory glint in his eyes, a silent challenge. He’s enjoying this. He’s enjoying the way I have to flinch every time I move.

"I found my way back just fine, Ethan," I say, my voice trembling with a spark of defiance.

"Did you mother?" Ethan tilts his head, his gaze dropping to the high collar of the silk blouse I chose to hide the bruise. "Because you look like someone who is still very much lost."

“Stop with the teasing Ethan” Arthur says smiling, “Don’t mind him sweetheart, he is just bored, Althea would return next week so he would be out of your air” Arthur adds.

Hopefully, he is, I hope and pray he gets out of my air and focuses on his bride.

I nod absently, my breath hitching as Ethan's boot reaches my knee and pushes higher. The "Tax" isn't just a midnight ritual anymore; he’s collecting it in broad daylight, right under his father’s nose.

His foot nudges the sensitive, bruised flesh of my inner thigh. I grip the edge of the table, my knuckles turning white, praying to a God I no longer deserve that he doesn't make me climax right here, with my husband smiling at me across the rim of his tea cup.

"Drink some tea, Mother," Ethan commands, his voice dropping into that dark, velvety register. "You look... weak this morning."

I reach for my teapot, my hand trembling so much the china rattles. I need something to wash away the dryness in my throat, the sheer panic of Ethan’s touch beneath the table.

I take a long, deep sip of the herbal tea. It’s hot, but as it slides down, a strange, metallic bitterness coats the back of my tongue. 

I frown, taking another sip to be sure. It tastes like copper - like the blood I tasted when I bit my lip last night.

"Is the tea not to your liking, sweetheart?" Arthur asks, noticing my grimace.

"It's just... a bit strong," I whisper.

I try to take a bite of the fruit on my plate, but suddenly, the terrace begins to spin. The bright morning sun turns into a blinding, white flash. 

A cold sweat, far more violent than the one I felt at the gala, breaks over my skin. My heart doesn't just hammer; it sputters, skipping beats like a failing engine.

"Zola?" Arthur’s voice sounds like it’s coming from the end of a long tunnel.

I try to stand, but my legs are no longer mine. The heavy pressure of Ethan's boot on my thigh is the only thing I can feel, but even that is fading into a terrifying numbness. My throat constricts, the muscles seizing until I can't swallow.

"Arthur..." I gasp, clutching my chest. My lungs feel like they are being filled with lead.

"Zola! Sweetheart!"

The world tilts. I see the teapot shimmer in the light before my vision begins to go black at the edges. I slump forward, my chin hitting the edge of the dining table with a dull thud.

"Father, look at her!" Ethan’s voice loses its mocking edge. It’s sharp, panicked. I feel the sudden loss of his foot on my wetness as he stands so quickly his chair flips backward with a crash.

I fall toward the floor, but before I hit the stone, strong arms catch me. I’m pulled against a chest that is heaving with a frantic, jagged rhythm.

"Hey! Breathe! Look at me!"

It’s Ethan. His face is inches from mine, and for the first time, the predator looks terrified. He looks at the half-empty teacup on the table, and his face transforms into a mask of raw, haunting trauma. 

His eyes aren't on me anymore; they are staring at the tea as if it’s a monster.

"No," he whispers, a low, broken sound. “Not again”

"What are you talking about, Ethan?" Arthur bellows, his voice cracking with fear as he reaches for his phone. "Call an ambulance! Now!"

But Ethan doesn't move. He cradles me against him, his grip so tight it bruises, his eyes fixed on my face as my breathing turns into shallow, wet rattles.

"I won't let them," Ethan snarls, not to Arthur, but to the empty air of the mansion. "I won't let them take her too."

As the darkness finally claims me, the last thing I hear is the sound of Ethan’s heart - beating with a dark, obsessive fury that promises a bloodbath for whoever dared to touch me.