My Husband Drugged Me for His Investor

I walked home.

Not because I wanted to. Because the car that had dropped me at the Plaza was gone. Because I could not stand on Fifth Avenue in a midnight-blue Valentino and wait for a taxi while doormen pretended not to stare.

So I walked. Forty-two blocks in heels that had cost more than most people's rent.

The penthouse was dark when I arrived. I let myself in with the key I had carried for six years and stood in the foyer for a long time. My cheek still burned where she had hit me. I touched it once. Then I stopped.

I walked into the kitchen and sat down at the counter.

The marble was cold under my palms. The city glittered through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Forty stories below, people were moving through their lives. Hailing cabs. Buying coffee. Existing in a world where men did not let their girlfriends slap other women at charity galas.

I did not turn on the lights.

I sat there in the dark in my Valentino gown and waited.

***

Jalen came home just after midnight.

I heard the elevator doors open. His footsteps in the hall. The sound of his jacket hitting the back of a chair.

He walked into the kitchen and stopped when he saw me.

"You're still up," he said.

I looked at him. I did not answer.

He moved to the stove and turned on the burner under the kettle. The blue flame hissed to life. He stood there with his back to me and loosened his tie.

"It's late," he said. "You should get some rest."

The kettle began to whistle. He poured water into the mug I kept on the counter. The one with the small chip on the rim. He dropped in a chamomile tea bag and set it in front of me.

Steam rose between us.

"Drink," he said.

I wrapped my hands around the mug. It was warm. Solid. Real.

"There's a situation," Jalen said. He pulled out the stool across from me and sat down. His voice was calm. Businesslike. The voice he used when he was explaining a contract. "Victor Hale is in town. He's staying in the hotel's penthouse suite."

I stared at the tea.

"He's considering a ten-million-dollar investment," Jalen continued. "But he needs assurances. Personal assurances."

I lifted the mug to my lips. The chamomile was bitter. I drank anyway.

"He's expecting someone upstairs tonight," Jalen said. He was watching me now. "It's part of the arrangement."

I took another sip. My hands were steady. I had learned over six years how to keep my hands steady.

"Claire," he said quietly. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

I finished the tea.

I set the mug down on the marble counter and looked at him.

"Yes," I said.

He nodded once. Then he stood and checked his watch.

***

The room began to tilt five minutes later.

I was still sitting at the counter. Jalen was scrolling through his phone near the window. The city lights blurred at their edges. Smeared like wet paint.

I tried to stand.

My legs did not cooperate.

I gripped the edge of the counter and forced myself upright. The floor moved beneath me. I looked across the kitchen at Jalen and he was already watching me. Waiting.

He pocketed his phone and crossed the room.

"Easy," he said.

He took my elbow. His grip was firm. Steady. The way you hold something that might break if you let go too quickly.

I tried to pull away. My body felt like it belonged to someone else.

"What did you do?" I whispered.

He didn't answer.

He guided me toward the elevator. I stumbled once and he caught me without urgency. Like I was luggage. Like I was something he had packed himself.

The elevator doors opened. He stepped inside and pulled me with him.

I watched the numbers climb. Forty-one. Forty-two. Forty-three.

The doors opened onto a hallway I had never seen.

Jalen walked me to a suite at the end. He used a keycard. The door clicked open.

Inside, the lights were low. Heavy curtains. A king bed with the covers turned down. The distant hum of traffic forty floors below.

He set me on the edge of the bed.

"Someone will be here soon," he said.

Then he left.

I heard the door lock behind him.

***

I don't know how long I sat there.

Time moved strangely. The room tilted and righted itself and tilted again. I tried to find my phone. My clutch was gone. My shoes were still on my feet but I could not feel them.

I forced myself to focus on the door.

When it opened, I braced for the worst.

The man who entered was not Victor Hale.

It was Tate Kennedy.

He stood in the doorway for a fraction of a second. His eyes swept the room. The turned-down bed. The low lights. Me.

Something in his face changed. Not loudly. But I saw it. A flash of rage so controlled and so total it seemed to pull all the air out of the room.

Then he crossed to the bed in three strides.

He took the blanket from the foot of it and wrapped it around my shoulders. His hands did not touch me. Only the fabric.

"Claire," he said quietly. "What did he give you?"

I tried to answer. My mouth would not form the words.

Tate knelt in front of me. His face was level with mine.

"You're safe," he said. "Do you understand? You're safe."

I looked at him. At the man who had walked through the door instead of the monster I had been sold to.

And for the first time in six years, I believed someone.