The throbbing pain in Andrea's hand made sleep impossible. The burn ointment she had found in the master bathroom offered a cooling sensation, but the deep tissue ache kept her awake.
At 1:00 AM, she gave up. She slipped out of the massive king-sized bed, careful not to wake Gregory, who was sleeping on the far edge. She pulled a silk robe over her nightgown and quietly left the bedroom, heading down to the wine cellar to find something strong enough to knock her out.
The Hamptons estate was dead silent. The air in the basement corridor was damp and chilled.
As Andrea approached the heavy arched doorway of the wine cellar, she heard voices. Low, tense voices. She froze. Her bare feet made no sound on the stone floor as she pressed her back against the cold wall, peeking around the corner.
Gregory was standing in the center of the cellar, illuminated by the dim amber lights. Across from him stood Julian Morse, Gregory's half-brother. Julian was swirling a glass of red wine, a nasty, arrogant smirk on his face.
Andrea quickly slipped inside the cellar, hiding behind a massive, floor-to-ceiling rack of oak barrels. The smell of fermented grapes and damp wood filled her nose. She held her breath.
"I heard the news," Julian sneered, taking a sip of his wine. "You're actually keeping that fake around? Don't be stupid, Gregory. She's a low-class social climber. She's using you."
Gregory let out a dark, humorless laugh. He leaned against a wine rack, crossing his arms. "Better a social climber than a useless parasite who can't even secure his own inheritance."
Julian's face darkened. He slammed the wine glass down on a tasting barrel. The dark liquid splashed over the rim. "You really think having a bastard kid is going to get you the CEO seat? The board hates you."
Gregory lunged forward. He grabbed Julian by the lapels of his expensive jacket, slamming him hard against the stone wall. The impact echoed loudly.
"I know exactly what happened the night Genevra died, Julian," Gregory snarled, his face inches from his brother's. "I know Andrea had nothing to do with the car crash."
Julian's eyes widened in pure terror. "Then... why did you marry her? Why do you treat her like dirt?"
"Because," Gregory said, his lips curling into a demonic smile, "every time I look at her face, I see the woman I lost. And making Andrea suffer is the only thing that numbs the pain. She is my punching bag. And I will break her until there's nothing left."
Behind the oak barrels, Andrea's heart stopped beating. The blood drained from her head so fast she felt dizzy. She pressed her hand hard over her mouth to stop the gasp from escaping.
He knew she was innocent. He knew she didn't cause the accident. He watched her try to be a good wife, and instead of letting her go, he used her as a psychological toy to vent his twisted grief.
Julian swallowed hard, trying to maintain his composure. "So what? She was a gold digger. She practically threw herself at me."
Gregory's grip tightened. "She is my wife now. If you or your mother ever try to touch her again, I will bury you so deep you won't see daylight again."
Julian shoved Gregory away, frantically adjusting his jacket. He was shaking. "You're sick, Gregory. You think Father will let you get away with this?"
"Try me," Gregory said coldly.
Julian didn't say another word. He turned and practically ran out of the wine cellar.
The heavy silence rushed back into the room. Andrea sank down to the cold floor, her back sliding against the oak barrel. Her chest heaved as she struggled to pull air into her lungs.
It was a setup. Her entire downfall was orchestrated by Eleanor and Julian. But the most horrifying realization hit her like a freight train: Gregory knew.
He knew she was innocent. He knew she was drugged. He watched her walk into his room, and instead of helping her, he used the situation to trap her in a marriage to secure his own power. He was the ultimate predator.
Footsteps echoed on the stone floor. Slow. Deliberate.
Andrea froze. The footsteps were coming toward her aisle.
Gregory stopped right at the edge of the oak barrels. He didn't look behind them. He didn't expose her. He simply reached out and pulled a bottle of vintage Bordeaux from the rack just inches from where Andrea was hiding.
He held the bottle up to the dim light.
"Some rats," Gregory murmured, his voice low and smooth, echoing perfectly in the quiet space, "are much more entertaining when you keep them in a cage."
He turned and walked out of the cellar.
Andrea squeezed her eyes shut, tears of pure, unadulterated rage burning her eyes. She bit down on her knuckles to keep quiet.
He knew she was there. He had orchestrated that entire conversation just to let her know she was his prisoner.
She looked at her trembling hands in the dark. She wasn't just a victim anymore. She was a weapon in his war. But Gregory Morse had made a fatal miscalculation. He thought he had tamed her.
Andrea's eyes hardened, the tears drying instantly. You think you're consuming me, Gregory? We'll see who eats who.
