The Blind Wife's Desperate Sacrifice

The heavy bass of club music vibrated through the floorboards of the boutique hotel in SOHO.

Adriane gripped her cane, stepping out of the elevator onto the top floor. The air was thick with a sweet, cloying incense that made her lungs feel heavy.

Brandi was waiting at the door of the penthouse suite. She grabbed Adriane's elbow and pulled her inside.

The music in the suite was deafening. It completely drowned out any noise from the hallway.

"Drink this, you look tense," Brandi shouted over the music, pressing a cold glass into Adriane's hand.

Adriane was exhausted and parched. Without thinking, she lifted the glass and took a large gulp. The icy club soda slid down her dry throat.

"I'll go get the costumes," Brandi said. She walked into the bedroom and quietly locked the door behind her.

Less than three minutes later, Adriane's stomach cramped.

A sudden, unnatural heat flared in her lower belly. Her heart rate spiked, hammering wildly against her ribs. The gray fog in her vision began to spin dizzily. Her arms and legs felt like they were turning to heavy lead.

Adriane dropped the glass. It shattered on the floor.

Panic seized her throat. The water. The water was spiked.

She tried to stand up, but her knees buckled. Her white cane slipped from her grasp, sinking silently into the thick carpet.

She fell to her hands and knees. She dragged herself toward the wall, her palms scraping against the rough wallpaper, leaving angry red marks on her skin.

Her breathing grew ragged. The drug was moving fast, melting her brain, replacing her fear with a terrifying, burning physical need.

She bit down hard on her own tongue. The sharp, metallic taste of blood flooded her mouth. The intense pain gave her exactly one second of clarity.

Her hand found the cold metal doorknob. She yanked it down and threw her body out into the hallway.

The blast of air conditioning in the corridor hit her burning skin, but it wasn't enough. The drug surged back stronger. She stumbled forward, dragging her hand along the wall, desperately searching for the elevator.

Three floors down, a private Wall Street mixer was in full swing.

Chase Barnett, disgusted by the fake smiles and cheap talk, stepped into the private VIP elevator. He pressed the button for the top floor, needing a moment of silence.

The elevator doors chimed and slid open. Chase stepped out. He reached up and yanked his silk tie loose.

He looked down the long, empty corridor.

His breath stopped.

At the far end of the hall, a woman was stumbling toward him. She was panting heavily. Her trench coat was pulled open, revealing the flushed, sweaty skin of her chest and neck.

It was Adriane.

Chase's pupils dilated. A sickening weight dropped into his stomach.

Adriane heard the heavy footsteps. Her drug-addled brain thought Brandi had come out to get her. She let out a whimpering cry of terror.

She tried to run, but her legs tangled together. She pitched forward, falling hard.

She didn't hit the floor.

She crashed into a wall of solid muscle. The scent of cold mint and expensive cigars wrapped around her.

Chase.

The drug completely destroyed her logic. His scent was the only safe thing she knew. She threw her burning arms around his waist, clinging to him like a drowning woman.

"Please," Adriane sobbed, her voice thick and slurred with desire. "Help me."

Chase stood frozen. He looked down at the woman in his arms. Her face was flushed dark red. Her eyes were glazed over. She was practically begging him to touch her.

At the end of the hallway, Brandi peeked around the corner. She held up an iPad, the red recording light blinking steadily. Phase one was complete.