Chapter 5

The party at Julian's house had burned down to embers.

Marcus was passed out on the couch, an empty glass dangling from his fingers. Derek had disappeared into a guest room. Priya was curled in an armchair, heels kicked off. The music had faded to a low hum.

Vanessa slept on the chaise lounge by the window, dark hair spilling over velvet cushions, breathing slow and even.

Cassian stood. The room tilted he'd taken more shots than usual and he braced a hand against the couch.

Julian appeared at his elbow. "Leaving so soon?"

"I have work tomorrow. I can't stay."

"You could take a day off. The world won't end."

"No."

"Suit yourself. I'll have your driver pull up to the front."

They walked to the foyer. Outside, the first hints of dawn paled the sky.

Cassian paused at the door, glancing back toward the living room. "Take care of her tonight. She's in your hands."

"Of course." Julian's smile didn't waver. "You know I'll take good care of her."

Cassian nodded and walked out. His driver was waiting. He climbed into the back seat and let his head fall against the leather. Through the window, he saw Julian standing in the doorway, one hand raised in a lazy wave. Then the car turned onto the main road, and Julian was gone.

The Kingsley estate was dark.

Cassian stepped into silence. No lights. No sounds. The staff had retired. The house felt hollow a museum after visiting hours.

He made his way to the dining room and lowered himself into a chair. His head was heavy. He loosened his tie and called out: "Water."

Marie appeared, filled a glass, set it before him.

"Where is Clara?"

The maid hesitated. "In her room, sir. She hasn't come out all day."

Cassian drank the water in one swallow. He pushed himself up and made his way toward the staircase. He did not go to his own bedroom. He went to Clara's.

The door opened without resistance.

The room was dim, lit only by a bedside lamp. Clara lay on the bed, her back to the door, still beneath the covers. She didn't stir when he entered or when he closed the door.

He stood at the edge of the bed, looking down at her. The curve of her shoulder. The fall of her hair. She was so still she might have been dead.

He tapped her shoulder.

Clara turned over, blinking. When she saw him alone, no Vanessa confusion flickered across her face, then alarm. "Cassian? What are you doing in my room?"

His jaw tightened. "Can't I come to my wife's room? You don't get to question me."

He pulled his tie loose and dropped it. His fingers worked his shirt buttons open one by one.

Clara scrambled off the bed. "What are you doing?"

"I'm touching my wife." His words were thick with whiskey. "You have duties. Obligations."

He closed the distance in two strides. His hands found her waist. He pulled her against him and his mouth came down on hers.

She struggled hands pushing, body twisting. "Cassian, stop—please—"

He didn't.

They fell backward onto the bed. The mattress groaned beneath their combined weight. Clara's fists beat against his chest, rapid and desperate, her voice cracking as she begged.

"Please, Cassian, please stop—"

He caught her wrists in one hand and pinned them above her head. His other hand found the neckline of her nightgown and pulled. The thin fabric tore with a sound like a scream.

"Please—"

He kissed her again. Harder this time. His mouth crushed against hers, swallowing her protests, drowning her pleas. The hand that had torn her nightgown moved down her body, rough and demanding. He pressed her breasts, his fingers digging into the soft flesh.

And then, slowly, Clara stopped fighting.

Her body went limp beneath him. Her hands stopped pushing. Her lips stopped pulling away. Her reluctance fading away.

This is the last time, she thought. The words were clear and quiet in her mind, a still point at the center of the chaos. This is the last time I will ever be with him. A parting gift. A goodbye.

She closed her eyes.

Cassian removed his trousers. His body pressed against hers. His mouth moved down her throat as he kissed her earning a moan from her.

His mouth moved down to her nipples as he sucked on it, she moaned, her head falling back, exposing the long line of her throat. He leaned in, his lips brushing against her skin, his teeth grazing her pulse point.

She gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. "Yes," she hissed, her hips grinding against his. "More."

He obliged, his hands sliding down to her ass, lifting her up. 

He kissed her again, hard and deep, his tongue delving into her mouth, tasting her, consuming her. She kissed him back with equal fervor, her teeth nipping at his lower lip, her tongue tangling with his.

His hands roamed her body, as he adjusted her panties to a side to caress her soft skin, to feel the heat of her core. She was wet, soaking through her panties, and he groaned at the feel of it, at the knowledge that he had done that to her.

He started stroking her, teasing her, feeling her writhe beneath him. She moaned into his mouth, her hips bucking against his hand, seeking more.

He obliged, slipping one finger, then two, into her tight heat. She was so wet, so hot, and he could feel her muscles contracting around his fingers, pulling him in deeper.

He pumped his fingers in and out, his thumb circling her clit, feeling her grow tighter, tenser, as he brought her closer to the edge.

"Please," she gasped, her head thrashing on the couch. "I need you inside me. Just do it once and get it over with". Clara murmured.

"Easy, you will get it", Cassian whispered drunkily as he freed his cock from his boxers stroking a little before he brought it to her entrance.

Cassian thrust into her, hard and deep, and she cried out, her back arching off the bed. She was so tight. Making him think of the last time he touched her.

But then she was moving, her hips rolling, her body urging him on. He started to move, pulling out slowly, then slamming back in, setting a hard, fast rhythm that had her moaning, her nails digging into his back.

He could feel her tightening around him, could feel her body tensing, preparing for release.

He reached between them, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing in tight circles, pushing her closer to the edge.

"Come for me," he growled, his hips positioning his cock hitting that sweet spot inside her with every thrust. "Come all over my cock."

She shattered then, her body convulsing, her muscles squeezing him tight as she screamed her release. He followed her over the edge, his own orgasm crashing through him, his cock pulsing, spilling inside her.

They both collapsed together, their bodies slick with sweat, their hearts pounding in tandem. 

He rolled off her and fell into a deep, whiskey-induced sleep within minutes.

Clara stared at the ceiling. She didn't cry. She had no tears left.

She woke at dawn.

Her body ached where his hands had been too rough. She turned her head and saw Cassian beside her, face slack and untroubled.

She reached out. Her fingers hovered above his cheek, inches from his skin. She could have touched him one last time.

She pulled her hand back.

No more.

She slid out of bed, every movement silent. She gathered her torn nightgown, slipped into the bathroom, and showered quickly. The hot water washed away the scent of him, the feel of his hands, the last traces of a marriage dead long before tonight.

She dressed in simple traveling clothes and looked at herself in the mirror. Her face still bore the fading ghosts of Vanessa's beating yellow-green bruises, a thin scab on her lip. But beneath all of it, her eyes were clear. Her jaw was set.

She was ready.

She retrieved the suitcase hidden under her bed for a week clothes, documents, a photograph of her parents, her mother's repaired pearl necklace. She set it by the door.

Then she crossed to the nightstand.

The signed divorce papers waited in a manila envelope. She placed them on the pillow beside Cassian's sleeping head.

She tore a sheet from the notepad and wrote three lines. That was all. Four years of suffering distilled to three lines.

She set the pen down. She folded the note and placed it on top of the papers.

She picked up her passport. Her suitcase. She walked to the door.

At the threshold, she stopped and looked back at the man who had never been a husband at all.

"Goodbye, Cassian."

Her voice didn't waver.

She walked down the stairs, through the cold, silent house that had been her prison for four years. She opened the front door and stepped into the pale gray light of early morning.

No one saw her go.

The taxi was waiting at the gate. The driver helped with her suitcase. She climbed in and didn't look back.

The airport was quiet at this hour.

She moved through check-in and security with quiet efficiency. Her visa was approved. Her ticket was confirmed. Her new life waited on the other side of the ocean.

She boarded the plane and found her window seat. The plane filled slowly a family, an elderly couple, a weary young woman. Ordinary people. No one looked at Clara twice.

The engines hummed. The flight attendants ran through safety demonstrations. The plane taxied toward the runway.

Clara pressed her forehead to the window.

The city spread below glass towers and winding streets, memories and ghosts. 

A single tear slipped down her cheek. She wiped it away.

Then she smiled. Small and fragile, but real. The first real smile in a very long time.

"Welcome to a better life," she whispered.

The plane lifted off and climbed into the sky. Clara watched the city shrink beneath her until it was nothing but clouds, and then nothing at all.