The first beam of sunlight casting its golden ray through the open blinds hit my face, gouging me from my sleep, and as my mind slipped back to consciousness, so did the memories of last night come rushing forth like a torrid hurricane.

I sucked in air between my teeth and shot up from bed but it proved to be a bad idea because the moment I did, a sharp pain like never before struck me between my thighs, making me hiss and fall right back.

Shit.

I slipped my hand between my legs and clenched my teeth. There was no way I could delude my mind into believing something didn't happen between us last night. The pain was too visible and the evidence was there, right there between my thighs.

God.

I squeezed my eyes shut and groaned.

I slept with Tristan.

Once again, I had betrayed my vow and did what I promised myself I wouldn't do, and I swear to God, I didn't know how it happened. Maybe it was the alcohol. It had to be. I was drunk and dismal and my emotions were much stronger than I could handle.

In his arms, I'd lost control. He made me lose control. His actions had been hypnotizing; his very touch was an aphrodisiac, and his unapologetic kisses were spelling binding, making me forget I shouldn't want him.

The nausea from drinking last night finally hit me, halting my thoughts. My stomach rolled aggressively. I clapped my hand over my mouth to hold down the unbidden bile that rose to my throat as I stumbled out of bed, legs weak, dashing blindly into the bathroom.

I barely made it to the sink in time before the vile broke through my hand. I shut my eyes tight and clenched my fists. My stomach hurt, my head was on fire, my clothes itched-my clothes. I didn't have any on. I was completely naked.

God, this was so frustrating. Why did my life always have to be so complicated?

When I emptied my stomach, I turned the faucet on and washed my hands, staring at the mess I made as it disappeared into the plug hole. Good riddance.

My eyes shifted up and locked with my reflection. I recoiled immediately and lowered my eyes back to the sink. Looking like hell was an understatement. I looked like I jumped right out of Doctor Who as a demented alien creature.

Groaning, I splashed cold water on my face. I really needed to get my shit together and getting clean was the first step.

An hour later, after scrubbing the smell of sex off me and fitting into my flannel shirt and leggings, I climbed down the stairs, massaging the muscles in my shoulder.

As much as I wanted to remain cooped up in my room thinking about how much I was fucking this contract up with my out-of-control libido and unstable hormones, I was hungry and dehydrated, and I needed something sweet, preferably chocolate or mint, just anything to kill the sour taste in my mouth.

Inside the kitchen, the smell of mushrooms wafted me.

"Buongiorno bellezza." Giuseppe greeted. "You had a pleasant sleep, no?" he asked, his voice flawlessly conversational as he circled the kitchen island to the coffee machine.

"Not really." I pulled out a chair and had a seat at the kitchen table. "My muscles are a bit sore, and I have a huge headache." I confided, rubbing my temple.

He nodded knowingly and handed me a hot coffee mug. "Have you seen him this morning?" He inquired. "Your husband?"

My scalp prickled. "No, why?"

"He did come down to get a bottle of vitamin water earlier," Giuseppe informed. "But he looked unwell, and since then I haven't seen him."

I shrugged, trying to appear indifferent.

The kitchen door swung open and Keith strolled in, dressed casually and holding a medical bag.

"Morning, madam," Keith greeted me with a lopsided smile before turning to Giuseppe. "Do you have the smoothie ready?"

"Si," Giuseppe replied, walking over to the fridge and returning shortly with a bottle of green, chunky liquid. "Did you get the drugs?"

"What drugs?" I interjected, pushing myself into the conversation.

They exchanged a knowing look. "It's over-the-counter medications," Keith explained, swallowing before continuing. "I'm afraid Mr. Larsen is feeling under the weather."

My eyebrows creased together.

He looked fine yesterday. He looked more than fine. He had the energy of a lion and fucked me with the strength of one.

"Well, tritare, tritare. Hurry now, you should get this to him before it gets worse." Giuseppe urged, handing him the bottle.

There was hesitation in the way Keith accepted it. He bit his lip, staring at the bottle. "Why don't you have madam do it?"

My brows shot up. "Me?"

Keith turned to me and nodded. "You can help us give this to him instead."

"Why do I have to do it?"

"Because he's your husband."

My lips formed a frown. Giuseppe and I exchanged glances and he smiled wearily at me. "He does have a point."

"Yes, and he's not going to snap at you like he will at us," Keith added. "He only ever gets sick once in forever, and when he does, he gets really irritable."

"Cranky too," Giuseppe chimed in, his gaze returning to me.

"And he fires people," Keith proceeded, looking at me with all seriousness in the world. "I don't want to lose my job. I promise I'll never ask you for a favor again. Just this once? Hm? Hm?"

My shoulders slumped. I wished I had a worthy comeback, but my brain failed me. Talk about emotional blackmail. "Alright, I'll go," I conceded. They were all starting to grow on me, and if what he said was right, then I didn't want to risk losing them.

His eyes dilated. "Thank you so much, madam." He gushed, swiftly handing me the bottle.

I narrowed my eyes and pinched my lip to hide my smile. Such manly men they were.

Getting to Tristan's bedroom door, I stopped and soothed my hair back behind my ears. It took me a moment to gather my wits before I eventually knocked.

"Tristan?" I called out softly.

For about a minute, no response rang through, so I moved closer to the door and knocked lightly again. "Tristan?"

After a few more agonizing seconds of silence, I leaned forward and placed my ear on the door, listening, not sure what I was hoping to hear but nothing reverberated. It was quiet, too quiet.

Growing increasingly frustrated, I pulled away and grabbed the doorknob. "Tristan, are you-" To my surprise, the knob twisted and the door opened slightly.

I jerked back immediately and paused, waiting for some kind of reprimanding, but when nothing came, I stepped forward, hesitating only a moment before pushing the door a few additional inches and poking my head in.

It was warm and cozy and reeked of expensive perfume. Cautiously, I let myself in and shut the door softly behind me.

The room was large and bathed in the ethereal glow of the sun that cast elongated shadows on the furniture and walls.

I took a few steps into the room, suddenly forgetting why I was there. The ambiance was mesmerizing; it was a haven of dark intellect with towering bookshelves, an elegant writing desk, en suite dressers, plush carpets, and ornate furniture.

My eyes danced over the rich tapestries and expensive artwork that adorned the walls. The king-sized bed was a centerpiece, an invitation to relaxation. It looked like a forte in there. The space was definitely larger than mine and more modernized; it was the definition of 'money bought quality.'

This room hadn't been part of the house tour when I first moved it but it effortlessly stole the show without reasonable doubts. As I explored, my gaze traveled over the many volumes of books spewed all over his mahogany desk. I walked over to it. First editions. I smiled when my eyes caught a glimpse of one particular book.

"The Pale Horse" by Agatha Christie.

I knew this book. It was about a dying woman giving her last confession to a Catholic priest and him being struck dead in a fog.

I licked my parched lips. I had no idea Tristan read thrillers. There were still a lot of things I didn't know about him. What a mysterious man. I picked the book up and a sharp thrill immediately zinged through my body. It smelled so rich and powerful, no doubt like him. I brought it closer to my nose and took a whiff.

Reading books, especially thrillers, had been the only constant companion I had back in Chicago. I didn't have many friends and after Jackson, I really didn't put myself out there. But through these books, I had lived a thousand lives.

I guessed that was why people read; to escape reality and soak into the temperament of who they weren't and who they yearned to be.

Smiling to myself, I opened the book. An object tumbled from between the pages in that moment, landing with a soft thud at my feet. When I looked down to see what it was, my heart skipped a bit.

My dream catcher.

At least a part of it.

Oh my...

I leaned over to pick it up. It was a broken piece of the dream catcher I had gifted him on our supposed honeymoon.

My heart raced as I grappled with the unexpected discovery.

Why did he have this? Why did he keep it?

I fiddled with the object, trying to understand his motives. I didn't know what to feel about this. His actions for the past five days had given me nothing but whiplash.

The ring of a phone suddenly pierced the air, making me jump.

Startled, I hastily tucked the broken piece back into the book, my gaze flitting around the room for the source of the sound. Then the realization struck: the ringing was emanating from somewhere else.

I turned to the bathroom door. "Tristan?" I called softly, my voice echoing in the hushed space.

No one answered, but the ringing persisted.

Swallowing the thick lump in my throat, I approached the bathroom cautiously. It was locked.

My pulse started to rise as a sudden bout of nervousness flooded my insides. "Tristan?" I called one more time, making sure he wasn't there or worse, naked.

When I got no reply back, I summoned up the courage and pushed the door open, but the sight I met made me gasp sharply and immediately stumble back.