The Unwanted Wife's Fatal Secret Diagnosis

Elena stood in the cavernous living room until her legs went numb.

The silence was a living thing, pressing in on her from all sides.

She pulled out her phone, her fingers fumbling with the screen. She found Chloe Sullivan's number and pressed call.

The moment Chloe answered, a choked sob escaped Elena's lips.

"Whoa, El. What's wrong?" Chloe's voice was sharp with immediate concern. "Did that Armani-wearing asshole do something again?"

"Chloe," Elena whispered, her voice cracking. "Can you meet me for a drink?"

Thirty minutes later, Elena pushed through the doors of the bar at The Carlyle. The low lighting and quiet murmur of conversations did little to soothe the frantic energy buzzing under her skin.

Chloe was already there, a bottle of expensive whiskey and two glasses on the table. She stood up as Elena approached, her face a mixture of anger and worry. She wrapped Elena in a fierce hug.

"Tell me everything," she ordered, pushing a glass into Elena's hand.

Elena told her. She told her about the divorce papers, about Hayleigh's return. She left out the most important part. The diagnosis. It was too new, too raw to be spoken aloud.

"That son of a bitch," Chloe seethed, her knuckles white around her glass. "After everything you've done for his family, for his public image. He's a monster."

Elena didn't answer. She just drank.

The whiskey burned a welcome path down her throat, a fire that momentarily eclipsed the icy dread in her veins. She poured another glass, then another. She wanted to get drunk. She needed the world to blur, to soften at the edges.

"Easy, El," Chloe warned, putting a hand on her arm.

Elena shook her head and drank more.

The room began to spin gently. She stood up, needing the restroom. Her steps were unsteady as she made her way through the dimly lit bar.

In the hallway, she stumbled, bumping into someone as she rounded a corner.

A man, drunk and belligerent, cursed at her before continuing on his way.

Elena mumbled an apology, her head fuzzy. She looked up and saw a group of scantily clad women laughing loudly as they headed in her direction, calling out a name.

Before she could process what was happening, a door beside her flew open.

A strong hand shot out, grabbing her arm and yanking her inside.

The door slammed shut, the lock clicking into place. The noise from the hallway was instantly muffled.

The room was dark, smelling of stale champagne and a cloyingly sweet perfume. Her heart pounded in her chest.

As her eyes adjusted, she saw him.

Jonathon.

He was leaning against the door, his breathing heavy and ragged. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his tie was gone, and the top buttons of his shirt were undone.

His gray eyes were dark, burning with a feverish light she had never seen before.

He'd been drugged. The women in the hall-it was a setup. A competitor's trap.

Her first instinct, fueled by alcohol and the day's raw pain, was to push him away, to leave him to his fate.

But as she struggled, she saw the flicker of agony in his eyes. The desperate, teeth-gritting effort he was making to hold onto the last shred of his legendary self-control.

In his vulnerability, she saw a reflection of her own.

Both of them fighting a losing battle, hiding a fatal weakness behind a carefully constructed facade. An unexpected, unwelcome wave of empathy washed over her.

Her struggling hands gentled. "I'll call a doctor," she whispered, her voice shaky.

He grabbed her wrist, his grip surprisingly strong. "Don't," he rasped, his voice thick. "Don't leave."

Through the drug-induced haze, some part of him recognized her. His body, stripped of its cold logic, reached for the familiar, for the woman who had been a constant, silent presence in his life for three years.

The last of his control shattered.

He lunged forward, his mouth crashing down on hers.

The kiss was rough, desperate, and hot. It tasted of whiskey and despair.

Her mind went blank. The alcohol in her system sang in response to the sudden, overwhelming sensory assault. She made a weak attempt to push him away, but her body betrayed her, melting against his.

He lifted her effortlessly, his arms like steel bands around her. He stumbled toward the bedroom, his movements clumsy but determined.

He laid her on the massive bed. The sound of her dress tearing was a sharp rip in the darkness. A brief sting of pain was quickly consumed by the fire he ignited on her skin.

In the last moments of clarity before she was completely lost, she looked into his eyes.

She saw a raw, unguarded need. A desperate longing.

It was everything she had ever wanted from him.

And it was a lie, created by chemicals and circumstance.