Too Late To Love Your Mute Wife

Aubree dragged her aching body off the floor and limped into the massive walk-in closet. Every step sent a sharp pulse of pain through her lower half.

She reached toward a section of soft, cotton loungewear, her fingers brushing against a loose grey sweater.

Godfrey walked up behind her. He snatched the sweater out of her hand and threw it onto the hardwood floor.

He reached into the formal section and pulled out a stiff, heavy Chanel tweed dress. It was a dark, suffocating navy blue.

He shoved the rough fabric into her chest. "Put this on," he commanded.

"Mrs. Valentine does not need to be comfortable," he added coldly. "She needs to be presentable."

Aubree turned around without making a sound. She stripped off the remnants of her torn nightgown and pulled the heavy dress over her head. The stiff fabric scratched against her sensitive skin, the tight waist restricting her breathing.

She walked over to the vanity mirror. She opened a small jar of thick concealer and began dabbing it heavily onto her neck, desperately trying to cover the dark purple bruises and bite marks he had left on her skin.

Ten minutes later, they stepped out of the private elevator into the underground parking garage.

Miles Mercer, Godfrey's executive assistant, was already standing by the open rear door of a black Maybach. He held a tablet in his hand, his face completely devoid of emotion.

Godfrey stepped into the car first, his long legs taking up most of the space in the back seat.

Aubree climbed in after him. She pressed her body flush against the opposite door, trying to put as much physical distance between them as the leather seat would allow.

The heavy door slammed shut. The air inside the cabin instantly felt thick and unbreathable.

The car pulled out of the garage and merged onto the highway heading toward Long Island.

Godfrey opened his laptop and began typing rapidly, completely ignoring her existence.

Aubree turned her head and stared out the tinted window. The trees blurred past. Her stomach cramped violently, twisting into tight knots at the thought of facing his family.

The Maybach suddenly jerked forward as the driver hit the brakes hard. Traffic had come to a dead stop.

Aubree's body pitched forward. Her shoulder brushed against the sleeve of Godfrey's suit jacket.

Godfrey instantly recoiled. He looked down at his sleeve and brushed his hand over the fabric, as if she had just wiped mud on him.

The small, dismissive gesture felt like a physical slap to Aubree's face.

The traffic did not move. Godfrey's breathing started to speed up. The suffocating enclosed space and the stagnant traffic triggered a dark, violent restlessness deep within his chest. A fierce, unyielding pressure built up behind his ribs, demanding immediate release. He gripped the leather armrest so hard the material creaked under the pressure of his white-hot tension, his knuckles turning completely bloodless.

"Pass them," Godfrey barked at the driver, his voice sharp and aggressive. "I do not care about the fines. Get this car moving."

The driver swallowed hard. He jerked the steering wheel, pulling the massive car onto the narrow shoulder of the highway, speeding dangerously past the line of stopped vehicles.

Aubree squeezed her eyes shut. She reached across her chest and gripped the seatbelt with both hands, her heart pounding against her ribs.

Two hours later, the Maybach turned onto a private, tree-lined road in the Hamptons.

The massive iron gates of the Valentine estate slowly swung open. The car crunched over the pristine gravel driveway, heading toward the towering main house.

Godfrey snapped his laptop shut. He turned his head and glared at Aubree. "Fix your face. Stop looking like a corpse."

The car rolled to a smooth stop in front of the grand portico.

The driver got out and opened Aubree's door. She looked up, preparing to step out, but her entire body froze. All the blood drained from her face in an instant.