Desperate Measures

AUDREY'S POV

The grandfather clock in the downstairs hallway chimed three in the morning. I sat shivering on the edge of the oversized mattress, staring at the untouched side of the bed. The hollow, agonizing silence of the massive house taunted me. After Gideon abandoned me at the gala to leave with Nora, sleep was out of the question. My mind played a torturous reel of what he might be doing with her in the dark. Did he take her back to a hotel? Were they tangled in sheets right now while I waited here like a fool?

By the time the pale morning sun peeked through the expensive bedroom blinds, I needed answers. I could not sit around this empty mausoleum waiting for a husband who treated me like a ghost. Driven to the edge of my sanity, I threw on a trench coat and took a cab straight to his corporate office building.

I marched out of the elevator onto his executive floor, my pulse thrumming in my ears. His stern secretary, Gwen, sat behind her pristine marble desk. When she saw me, her posture went rigid.

"Good morning, Mrs. Roth," she said, her voice dripping with practiced corporate distance.

"I need to see Gideon," I demanded.

She kept her hands flat on her keyboard. "I am sorry, ma'am. Mr. Roth gave strict orders not to be disturbed by anyone."

Humiliation flushed my cheeks. A public reminder of my lowly rank in his life. I was his wife, yet I was treated like a pesky solicitor.

"I am not just anyone," I pleaded, fighting the pathetic tremble in my voice. "It is important."

"I cannot let you in," she repeated flatly.

Before I could argue further, a deep, resonant laugh echoed down the corridor. The heavy mahogany doors to Gideon's private office swung open. My breath hitched.

He stepped out walking side-by-side with Nora. His handsome face carried a carefree, relaxed warmth I had never seen directed at me. He wasn't wearing his usual ice-cold mask.

He casually turned to Nora. "I will pick you up at eight tonight."

Nora smiled, brushing imaginary dust off his lapel. "Don't be late." She shot a knowing smirk in my direction, her eyes calculating and triumphant, before she sauntered past me and stepped into the open elevator.

I stepped right into Gideon's path. My hands shook. "Gideon."

He froze. The warmth vanished from his features, replaced by a freezing, piercing glare.

"I came to talk," I said. "Why didn't you come—"

"Not now," he cut me off. His voice carried zero emotion. He did not even look at me for more than a second before he turned his head to his secretary. "Gwen. Make sure no one disturbs me."

He pivoted on his heel and walked right back into his office. The door clicked shut.

Utterly defeated and stripped of my dignity, I turned around. I took the elevator down to the dimly lit underground parking garage. The damp air chilled my skin as my heels clicked against the concrete. As I walked toward the exit to hail another cab, a sleek red sports car flashed its headlights.

Nora leaned against the driver's side door, her arms crossed over her chest. She had deliberately waited for me.

"You look awful," she mocked, her sickeningly sweet voice laced with pure venom.

I kept walking, refusing to let her see my pain. "Is there something you want?"

She stepped out, blocking my path just enough to force me to stop. "You really shouldn't cling to a man who clearly doesn't want you. It is sad and pathetic."

I clenched my jaw, tasting blood on the inside of my cheek. "Mind your own business, Nora."

She let out a sharp laugh. "I am just giving you some advice. You are fighting a losing battle, Audrey. You should know when to quit."

She slid into her car, the engine roaring to life. Her toxic words settled heavily over my shoulders like a suffocating dark cloud as her taillights faded into the gloom.

That night, the house was just as empty. Gideon was running late once again, no doubt out on his eight o'clock date with Nora. Sitting in the quiet living room, sheer desperation pushed me to my breaking point. He had kept me in the dark for three years. I needed to know what he was hiding.

I walked up the stairs and stood before his private study. It was a strict three-year rule: I was never allowed inside. My pulse pounded against my ribs. I turned the brass knob. It clicked open. I slipped inside into the pitch black and turned on the small desk lamp, shutting the door behind me.

The room smelled of old paper and his rich cologne. I moved behind his heavy desk and began pulling at the drawers. Most were unlocked and filled with boring financial reports. But the bottom drawer held firm. I tugged harder, noticing the small lock was loose. With a sharp yank, the latch gave way.

I rummaged frantically through loose files and empty folders. At the very bottom lay an old, slightly worn-out photograph facing down.

I flipped it over. My heart froze in my chest.

It was a picture of a young Gideon standing next to a beautiful woman who shared his striking features—his mother. But that wasn't what made my blood run cold. Standing side-by-side with them, smiling happily at the camera, were my own parents.

My mind reeled with unanswerable questions. The air left my lungs. Why were my parents in a photo with Gideon and his mother? Before our arranged marriage, neither Gideon nor my parents ever mentioned knowing each other. They acted like perfect strangers. Was our entire marriage built on some hidden past? What else were they hiding from me?

A sudden, sharp click echoed from the downstairs front door.

Panic surged through my veins. I hastily shoved the old photograph back to the bottom of the drawer, slammed it shut, and sprinted out of the study. I raced silently down the hallway and slipped into our master bedroom, shutting the door just seconds before heavy footsteps reached the landing.

The bedroom door thrust open. Gideon stepped heavily inside. The intense reek of hard liquor rolled off him in waves. He didn't say a single word. His eyes were dark, glazed with intoxication and a rough, feral hunger.

Before I could even speak, he crossed the room in two long strides. His large hands grabbed my waist, his fingers digging into my hips. He jerked me forward, pulling my body flush against his hard chest.

His mouth crashed onto mine. It was not a kiss born of love; it was starved and desperate. His tongue shoved past my lips, tasting of whiskey and dominance. I knew in my mind I should push him away. I knew he was drunk. I knew he was probably pretending I was Nora. But the lonely ache in my chest betrayed me. My body yearned for his touch too much.

He did not bother with gentleness. His hands gripped the hem of my shirt and ripped it over my head. He unclasped my bra and tossed it to the floor. His rough palms immediately cupped my bare breasts, his thumbs rolling hard over my nipples until they hardened under his rough friction.

I gasped into his mouth. He walked me backward until the backs of my knees hit the mattress. He pushed me down. I bounced against the heavy duvet as he quickly undid his belt and shoved his pants down his thighs.

He grabbed my ankles and dragged me to the edge of the bed. He yanked my underwear down my legs, stripping me, and tossed the scrap of fabric aside. I was laid bare, my legs spread open for him.

He dropped his weight over me, parting my thighs wider with his knees. Without any preparation, he reached down and stroked his thick, hard cock against my wet pussy. The slick friction made my breath catch in my throat. He didn't wait. He gripped his shaft, lined up the head with my opening, and thrust his hips forward.

His cock slid deep inside my wet vagina. I let out a sharp cry. He was thick and unyielding, stretching my tight flesh. It was only the second time in our entire three-year marriage that he had claimed my body, and both instances were fueled by alcohol.

He grabbed my hips, anchoring me to the mattress as he began to pump in and out of me. The slap of his skin against my thighs echoed in the quiet room. His thrusts were relentless, driving his hard dick deep into my pussy again and again. His chest heaved above me, sweat glistening on his collarbones.

"Gideon," I breathed out, my nails digging into his back.

He grunted, grinding his hips down so his pubic bone rubbed directly against my clitoris. A jolt of intense pleasure shot through my core. I arched my spine, taking the full, deep length of him with every forceful thrust. He pounded into me with a starved desperation. As our bodies tangled in the heat of the night, slick with sweat and friction, I foolishly deceived myself. I wrapped my legs around his waist, taking his thick cock deeper into my tight pussy, convincing myself that this raw physical intimacy was a genuine spark of hope for our broken marriage.

He let out a harsh groan, thrusting in as far as he could go, and came deep inside me. He collapsed heavily against my shoulder, his breathing ragged. I stroked his hair, clinging to the pathetic illusion that he finally wanted me.

The harsh morning sunlight bled through the curtains, striking my face. I blinked against the brightness. The heavy warmth that had pressed against my side all night was gone.

I sat up, the cold air hitting my naked skin. I pulled the white sheets up to cover my bare chest. A warm blush crept up my cheeks as the intense passion of last night flashed through my mind. I looked toward the large oak dresser.

Gideon stood there, already out of bed. He was dressed in crisp, dark suit pants and a white dress shirt. He calmly buttoned the cuffs of his sleeves. His posture was rigid. He acted as if nothing intimate had happened between us.

"Gideon," I said softly. My voice sounded small in the large room.

He did not look at me. He picked up his expensive silk tie and draped it around his neck.

"About last night..." I started, gripping the edge of the sheet. I wanted to ask him what it meant. I wanted to ask if things were finally changing between us.

He stopped buttoning his shirt. He turned his head and looked at me. His expression was dead. His eyes were devoid of any emotion, empty of the feral heat that had burned inside them hours ago.

"Do not overthink it," he stated flatly. His voice carried a chilling, businesslike tone.

I froze. The words felt like ice water dumped over my head.

He adjusted his collar. "I sent some money to your account. Consider it payment for your services."

My stomach dropped out of my body. My lips parted, but my vocal cords paralyzed. He smoothly grabbed his leather briefcase from the chair beside the door. He turned the handle and walked out of the bedroom. He did not spare me another glance. He did not look back.

The heavy oak door clicked shut behind him, leaving me alone in the sprawling, cold bed.

Hot tears spilled over my eyelashes, blurring my vision. My knuckles turned white as I clutched the rumpled bedsheets against my chest. My bleeding heart sank into an endless, suffocating abyss as the horrifying reality set in.

My own husband had just paid me for sex. I had been reduced to nothing more than a paid escort to my own husband.