Chapter 10: The fury
He texted his driver before he even reached the elevator.
The car was waiting for him at the curb, the engine humming, the interior smelling of leather and the faint ghost of whatever cologne his driver favored. Adrian slid into the back seat and gave the address of the gala, the words automatic, rehearsed. The city slid past him in ribbons of gold and red, the streets wet with a light spring rain that had started without him noticing.
His phone buzzed again.
Evelyn: The Canales are here. I told them you were on your way.
He stared at the message until the screen dimmed. The Canales. The clients from Madrid. He was supposed to be charming them right now, closing the deal on the cultural center project, but all he could feel was the lingering phantom of his own climax, the shame of it still sticky on his skin.
The driver pulled up to the hotel, and Adrian stepped out of the car and into the role he'd been playing for years.
The ballroom was a cathedral of crystal and white marble, chandeliers dripping light like frozen waterfalls. A string quartet played something soft and unobtrusive from a corner, and the air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and warm champagne. Everyone was turned out in their finest, the glittering upper crust of the city's architectural and philanthropic elite.
And there, by the far window, was Evelyn.
She wore a pale blue gown that made her look like something out of a dream, her honey-blonde hair swept up in a soft twist with loose tendrils framing her face. She was laughing at something one of the Canales had said, her hand resting lightly on her chest, that open, trusting smile on her face.
He felt the guilt like a physical blow.
"Adrian!" She caught sight of him and lit up, crossing the room with her arms outstretched. "There you are."
He let her embrace him, let her press a kiss to his cheek. She smelled like vanilla and fresh laundry, like everything clean and safe and good, and for a moment, he wanted to sink into her, to let her kindness wash away the filth of the last twenty-four hours.
"Sorry I'm late," he said, the lie smooth as glass. "The meeting ran over."
"Don't apologize. You're here now." She squeezed his hand. "The Canales love you. I've been telling them about the Barcelona project, and they're very excited."
The next two hours were a blur of handshakes and silky platitudes. Adrian smiled, he nodded, he talked about tensile strength and sustainable design, and all the while, Raven's face kept flickering behind his eyes like a dying bulb.
He caught his reflection in a mirrored pillar at one point, and it startled him. This man in the tuxedo, the salt-and-pepper hair, the practiced smile—this was him. This was the man Evelyn had married. This was the man who had built an empire from nothing, who had taken a failing firm and turned it into a name whispered with respect across three continents.
This was also the man who had fucked his assistant in a hotel room and then masturbated to the memory of it in his own office not three hours ago.
The dissonance was a knife twisting in his gut.
"We should head home," Evelyn said, appearing at his elbow. "I'm tired, and you look exhausted."
He nodded, grateful to leave. The car ride was quiet, Evelyn's head resting on his shoulder, her hand in his. She hummed softly, something formless and sweet, and the sound made his chest ache.
"I'm proud of you," she murmured against his lapel. "You were wonderful tonight."
He couldn't speak. He just squeezed her hand and stared out at the city sliding past, a smear of neon and rain.
The penthouse was dark when they arrived, the blinds drawn tight, the only light coming from the amber glow of the desk lamp in his study. Evelyn kicked off her heels in the foyer, her laugh soft and musical, and padded to the bedroom on bare feet.
"Are you coming to bed?" she asked, pausing at the doorway.
"Soon," he said. "Just need to check a few emails."
"Don't be too long." She smiled, and it was the same smile she'd had on their wedding day, the same open, trusting expression that had made him believe he could be a better man.
He waited until she disappeared into the bedroom before he poured himself a drink.
The whiskey burned going down, a familiar comfort. He stood in the dark living room, the skyline glittering beyond the glass, and tried to find the man he'd been before Raven Delacroix walked into his life.
He couldn't find him.
He'd been erased, replaced by this hollow thing that wore his face and said his name, this creature of appetite and shame that couldn't stop wanting what would destroy him.
Adrian finished his drink and walked to the bedroom.
Evelyn was in bed, propped against the pillows, a book open in her lap. She looked up when he entered, and her eyes were soft, still filled with that quiet adoration that made him want to scream.
"Everything okay?" she asked.
"Fine. Just work." He undressed slowly, hanging his jacket in the closet, unbuttoning his shirt with deliberate care. He could feel her watching him, could feel the weight of her gaze on his bare back.
I have to do this. The thought came unbidden.
He didn't know if he meant it as a penance or a punishment.
He climbed into bed beside her, the sheets cool and smooth against his skin. She set her book aside, turning to face him, her hand finding his chest, tracing idle patterns through the thin hair there.
"You're tense," she said softly. "You've been tense for weeks."
"I'm fine."
"You're not." She proped herself up on one elbow, her face inches from his, her blue eyes searching his face. "Talk to me, Adrian. Whatever it is, we can figure it out together."
There it was. The invitation. The open door.
He could tell her. He could confess everything, let the truth spill out of him like poison from a wound. She would cry, maybe. She would scream. But she would forgive him—Evelyn would forgive anything, because that's who she was, pure and forgiving as a saint.
But he didn't want her forgiveness.
He wanted to ruin her.
The thought came from somewhere black and festering, and before he could stop himself, he was kissing her.
It was not a gentle kiss. It was not the kind of kiss he gave her at the door, soft and familiar. This was a kiss with teeth, with hunger, with all the desperate, clawing need he'd been choking on for months. He rolled on top of her, his weight pressing her into the mattress, one hand tangling in her hair as he pulled her mouth to his.
"Adrian—" she gasped against his lips, startled. "What are you—"
"I want you," he growled, the words scraping out of him. "Don't tell me no. Not tonight."
She blinked up at him, wide-eyed, her lips parted, and he could see the question in her face—where was this coming from, this sudden ferocity? But she didn't ask. She just nodded, a small, tremulous movement, and let him take what he wanted.
He yanked the straps of her nightgown down her shoulders, exposing her pale skin, her small breasts, the faint blue tracery of veins beneath her porcelain flesh. She was so soft, so fragile, so completely different from the dark, athletic body he'd buried himself in last night.
He hated himself for the comparison.
He hated himself more for the way it made him harder.
He didn't make love to her. He fucked her, roughly, brutally, his hips slamming against hers with a rhythm that was almost violent. She gasped beneath him, her hands gripping his shoulders, her nails digging in. He could feel her body struggling to accommodate him, can her breath hitching with each thrust.
"Is this okay?" he rasped, the words a parody of concern.
"Yes," she breathed. "Yes, baby, just—"
But he didn't let her finish. He buried his face in her neck and thrust harder, his mind spinning with images he couldn't control. Raven's face, Raven's breasts, Raven's lips wrapped wet around his cock. He was using his wife to chase another woman's ghost, and the knowledge made his stomach turn with disgust.
He came with a groan, his body shuddering, his face buried in the crook of her neck. For a long moment, he couldn't move, couldn't breathe, his heart pounding against his ribs like a trapped animal.
Evelyn's hand stroked through his hair, her touch gentle in the aftermath.
"Baby," she whispered. "Are you okay?"
He lifted his head and looked at her. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips swollen, her eyes still soft and confused. There were red marks on her shoulders where his fingers had dug in.
He had hurt her.
He had hurt her and she was asking if he was okay.
"I'm fine," he said. And the lie tasted like ash.
He rolled off her and lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. The room was cast in amber shadow, the city beyond the blinds a distant hum. Evelyn curled into his side, her head on his chest, her hand over his heart.
"I love you," she murmured, already half-asleep.
The words were a hammer.
He didn't say it back.
He lay there for a long time, her breathing evening out into the deep, regular rhythm of sleep. And when he finally closed his eyes, he saw Raven's face behind his lids, that knowing smirk, those dark, bottomless eyes.
He knew he was going to do it again.
He knew he was going to ruin everything.
And he couldn't bring himself to care.
The next morning, he woke before Evelyn, showered, and dressed in silence. He left a note on his pillow—gone for a run, see you at dinner—and drove to the office at a speed that made the city blur.
He needed to see her.
He needed to feel the fire that would destroy him.
And by the time he reached Blackwood Tower, his resolve was a living thing, breathing and hungry.
Raven was at her desk, exactly where he expected her to be. She looked up as he approached, her dark eyes flicking over him with that same unreadable composure.
"Good morning, Mr. Blackwood."
"Raven." His voice was a rasp. "I need you in my office. Now."
He didn't wait for her reply. He walked past her, through the door, and stood with his back to her until he heard the click of the door shutting behind her.
Then he turned.
"Shut the blinds," he said.
A slow, knowing smile spread across her face.
She reached for the cord, and the light in the room began to die.