Too Late To Love Your Mute Wife

Sweat dripped from Godfrey's forehead, landing on Aubree's pale collarbone. His skin was burning hot against hers.

His eyes were completely unfocused, glazed over by the chemical haze in his bloodstream. His breathing was ragged, sounding like a machine breaking down.

He suddenly dropped his weight forward, burying his face deep into the curve of her neck. His chest expanded rapidly against hers.

His Adam's apple bobbed against her skin. "Allyson," he groaned, his voice thick and hoarse.

Aubree's entire body went completely rigid. Her muscles locked into place as if rigor mortis had set in.

The tearing pain in her lower half vanished, completely overshadowed by the sensation of her heart being thrown into a meat grinder. The organ shattered inside her chest, the pieces cutting into her lungs.

Godfrey finished with a heavy shudder. He rolled off her immediately, his heavy body landing on the mattress beside her.

The only sound in the room was their harsh, uneven breathing.

Slowly, the drug began to lose its peak grip on Godfrey's brain. His eyes blinked rapidly as reality crashed back into him. He sat up abruptly.

He looked down at the ruined sheets, the torn silk, and then at Aubree's completely hollow eyes. She was staring at the ceiling, not blinking, not moving.

A flash of intense disgust crossed his face. He threw the covers off his legs and stood up.

He walked naked across the room toward the bathroom. He did not look back at her. He did not offer a towel.

The bathroom door clicked shut. Seconds later, the loud rush of the showerhead started, as if he needed to scrub a disease off his skin.

Godfrey stood under the showerhead, bracing his hands against the wet tile. The freezing water hit his back, the biting cold making the extensive, jagged network of old, hidden scars stretching across his shoulder blades tighten and ache. He welcomed the sharp sting, using the physical pain to ground his chaotic mind and wash away the lingering heat of the chemical haze.

Aubree forced her elbows to bend. She pushed her upper body off the mattress, her arms shaking violently. She reached out and pulled the torn edge of the blanket over her exposed stomach.

She slid off the edge of the bed. Her legs gave out the second her bare feet touched the carpet. She collapsed onto the floor, her knees hitting the ground hard.

She crawled over to the nightstand. She reached down to the very bottom drawer, the one with the hidden digital lock.

Her bloody fingers punched in a four-digit code. The drawer clicked open. She reached inside and pulled out a worn, leather-bound journal.

She opened the heavy cover. The pages were thick with newspaper clippings, magazine cutouts, and printed articles. Nine years of Godfrey Valentine's life, carefully documented and preserved.

A tear finally broke free, falling onto a faded photograph. It was a picture of a teenage boy playing basketball, taken secretly from the bleachers when she was fifteen years old.

The water in the bathroom suddenly stopped.

Aubree panicked. She shoved the journal back into the drawer, slammed it shut, and scrambled away from the nightstand.

Godfrey walked out of the bathroom, a towel secured around his waist. His hair was dripping wet.

He walked straight to his massive walk-in closet. He pulled out a crisp white dress shirt and a custom-tailored suit.

He began buttoning the shirt, his eyes finally dropping to look at her sitting on the floor. He looked at her as if she were a pile of garbage left on the street.

"Take a pill," he said, his voice completely flat. "Do not infect my bloodline with your trash."

Before Aubree could process the cruelty of his words, the cell phone on the nightstand began to vibrate.

Godfrey picked it up. He saw the caller ID, and his posture instantly straightened. The hostility in his face was replaced by strict obedience.

"Yes, Grandmother," he answered, his tone perfectly controlled.

It was Augusta, the matriarch of the Valentine family. Her voice was loud enough to bleed through the speaker. She demanded that Godfrey and his wife return to the Hamptons estate immediately for the weekend.

Godfrey's knuckles turned white around the phone. His jaw clenched tightly. "Understood. We will be there."

He ended the call and threw the phone onto the bed. He turned his head and glared at Aubree.

"You have ten minutes to make yourself look like a human being," he ordered.