The sharp, coppery smell of blood woke Chloe.
She had fallen asleep slumped over the desk, her cheek pressed against the cool wood. For a moment, she was disoriented, the unfamiliar weight of sleep in the wrong room confusing her. Then the smell hit her again, stronger this time, a raw, metallic stench that turned her stomach.
It was coming from downstairs.
She pushed herself up, her neck stiff and aching. A wave of nausea rolled through her. She clapped a hand over her mouth and ran, her bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor as she sprinted to the nearest bathroom. She barely made it to the toilet before she was retching, her body convulsing with dry, heaving spasms. Nothing came up but bitter bile that burned her throat.
When the nausea subsided, she splashed cold water on her face, staring at her pale reflection in the mirror. The woman looking back at her was a stranger, her eyes shadowed with a new, hard resolve.
She walked slowly down the main staircase, her hand gripping the banister for support. The smell grew stronger, leading her to the dining room. There, on the long, polished table, sat a silver serving platter, placed with deliberate force by the housekeeper, Mrs. Peters.
Mrs. Peters, a woman whose loyalty was bought and paid for by Griffin, stood stiffly by the table, her face a mask of disapproval. She didn't meet Chloe's eyes.
"Mr. Donovan ordered this for you," the housekeeper said, her voice flat and mechanical. "He said you are to eat all of it. To replenish your iron."
She lifted the silver cloche with a flourish. On the plate sat a large, thick slab of beef liver, seared on the outside but still glistening with blood. It was barely cooked. The iron-rich, gamey smell filled the air, and Chloe felt another wave of sickness wash over her.
She took a step back, shaking her head. "I can't eat that. You know I can't."
She had told Griffin years ago, told everyone in this house. She had a violent aversion, an allergy, to organ meats. The very sight of it made her ill.
"Mr. Donovan insisted," Mrs. Peters repeated, unmoved.
Just then, the front door opened, and a gust of cold morning air swept into the foyer. Jaida Brennan entered, leaning heavily on the arm of her younger sister, Melody. Jaida was dressed in a soft, white cashmere coat, looking pale and fragile, a perfect porcelain doll.
Melody, on the other hand, was a burst of loud color and cheap perfume. Her eyes, sharp and malicious, immediately landed on the plate of liver. A smirk twisted her brightly painted lips.
"Well, well," Melody said, her voice dripping with condescension. "Look what the cat dragged in. I guess that's all you country girls know how to eat. Offal."
Chloe's jaw tightened. She ignored the younger sister and turned to go back upstairs, wanting nothing more than to be away from them, away from this house.
"Chloe, wait," Jaida's voice was soft and breathy.
She let go of Melody's arm and took a few unsteady steps toward Chloe, her hand outstretched as if in a gesture of peace.
Chloe instinctively sidestepped her, unwilling to be touched.
It was all the opening Jaida needed. With a theatrical gasp, she stumbled, her ankle twisting unnaturally. She let out a sharp, pained cry and crumpled to the floor, her white coat pooling around her like a fallen angel's wings.
"Jaida!" Melody shrieked, rushing to her sister's side. She glared up at Chloe, her face contorted with rage. "What did you do? You pushed her! You vicious bitch!"
As if on cue, the front door opened again.
Griffin strode in, bringing with him the chill of the outside world. He took in the scene in a single, sweeping glance: Jaida on the floor, weeping softly into her hands; Melody kneeling beside her, pointing an accusing finger; and Chloe, standing frozen by the staircase, her face a mask of disbelief.
His expression, already cold, turned to ice.
He didn't ask what happened. He didn't wait for an explanation. He crossed the room in three long strides, his movements filled with a controlled fury. He shoved Chloe aside, a brutal, dismissive push that sent her stumbling backward.
Her back hit the hard, carved newel post at the bottom of the stairs. Pain, sharp and immediate, exploded in her spine, and she gasped, sucking in a breath through her teeth.
Griffin didn't even notice. He was already crouching beside Jaida, his voice low and laced with a concern he had never once shown Chloe. "Are you hurt? What did she do?"
"It's not her fault, Griffin," Jaida whispered, her voice trembling artfully. She looked up at him through a veil of tears. "I just... I lost my balance. I'm so clumsy."
Her defense was more damning than any accusation. It painted Chloe as a cruel aggressor and Jaida as a forgiving saint. It worked perfectly.
Griffin's eyes, when he looked back at Chloe, were black with rage. He gently lifted Jaida into his arms as if she weighed nothing and carried her to the sofa. After settling her against the cushions, he turned and walked slowly, deliberately, toward Chloe.
The air grew thick, heavy with his menace. Chloe straightened up, forcing herself to stand tall despite the throbbing pain in her back. She would not cower. Not anymore.
He stopped directly in front of her, so close she could feel the heat radiating from his body. He reached out and grabbed her chin, his fingers digging into her jaw, forcing her to meet his gaze. The pressure was immense, a clear and brutal display of his power.
"I don't know what game you're playing," he snarled, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. "But it ends now. You will not touch her. You will not look at her. If you so much as breathe in her direction again, I will make you regret the day you were born. Do you understand me?"
Chloe stared into his eyes, the eyes of the man she had loved for three years, the man she had given up everything for. And she saw nothing. No love, no compassion, just a cold, empty void filled with a stranger's fury. A bitter, ironic laugh bubbled up in her throat.
The sound, so unexpected, so full of derision, seemed to startle him. His grip on her jaw loosened for a fraction of a second, a flicker of confusion crossing his face.
He recovered quickly, his anger returning twofold. To reassert his control, he let go of her and pointed a rigid finger at the dining table.
"You will sit down," he commanded, "and you will eat every last piece of that liver. Now."
Melody, seeing her chance, pulled out her phone, a gleeful, vindictive light in her eyes. She was ready to record Chloe's humiliation.
Griffin shot her a look so venomous it made her flinch and quickly put the phone away. But his order to Chloe stood.
The smell of the bloody meat was making her stomach heave. The thought of putting it in her mouth was a physical torture. But the look on Griffin's face told her this was a battle she could not win. Not yet.
Slowly, deliberately, Chloe walked to the table and sat down. Her hands trembled as she picked up the heavy silver knife and fork. With a deep, steadying breath, she cut into the rubbery flesh. A trickle of red juice pooled on the white plate.
She lifted the fork to her lips, the metallic scent filling her nostrils, a wave of revulsion rising in her throat.
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