Chapter 2
Sheryl's POV
I landed hard on the plush mattress, the impact sending a jolt of pain through my shoulders and injured knee despite the soft bedding. Rhett towered over me, his imposing figure nearly blocking out the room's light, leaving his face shrouded in shadow. Only his eyes were visible—cold and piercing like a frozen lake in winter.
"What the hell were you thinking? Taking on five men by yourself?" His voice was dangerously low. "Ever heard of bringing bodyguards?"
Then he seemed to freeze suddenly, his gaze dropping to my knee.
I tugged at my dress, struggling to appear composed though I knew he could sense my trembling. I'd never let him know how his mere proximity accelerated my heartbeat.
"My, my. Is Rhett Hayes actually concerned about me?" I kept my tone light and sarcastic.
He let out a cold laugh, his lips twisting into a cruel smile. "Don't flatter yourself, Sheryl. I'm only worried you'll embarrass me if someone roughs you up."
His words sliced through me. I fought to maintain my icy facade, though I suspected my eyes betrayed me. Two years of marriage had built an impenetrable wall between us, with words as our weapons of choice.
"Don't worry about the Hayes family reputation," I said, my voice devoid of warmth. "You've already destroyed whatever good name you had left, haven't you?"
Something flickered in his eyes. During our two years of marriage, he'd flaunted his affairs and created scandals while I was left cleaning up his messes to preserve the family image.
"Speaking of which," I continued, deliberately bringing up what I'd seen earlier, "Vanessa seems quite special to you. She follows you everywhere, doesn't she?"
The air suddenly thickened. Rhett's expression hardened as he stepped forward, planting his hands on either side of me, caging me within his presence.
"Listen carefully, Sheryl. Vanessa is none of your business."
"Like hell she isn't!" I nearly shouted. "She's your beloved girl, right? That's what all of Boston high society calls her."
"Sheryl," he suddenly narrowed his eyes, his expression shifting to one of contemptuous flirtation. "Since you have so much time on your hands caring about that, maybe you should spend it with me instead."
"Go to hell! Go find your lover!" I snapped, attempting to push him away but lacking the strength.
His eyes fixated on my lips before he suddenly crashed his mouth against mine. I protested against his lips, my hands beating against his chest, but he easily captured my wrists, his body pressing down on mine. In desperation, I bit his lower lip—hard.
He jerked back with a hiss of pain. "Jesus Christ, Sheryl! What are you, a rabid dog?"
I stared at his slightly bleeding lip and let out a bitter laugh. "Touch me again, and I'll do worse than bite. You don't have to love me, but you damn well need to respect me. Did you honestly think you could hop from her bed to mine? Get out of my sight!"
He released me, his eyes regaining that familiar detachment.
Looking into those eyes, I felt a profound weariness and sadness wash over me. Just how important was Vanessa to him? The question weighed on my heart like a stone.
Rhett turned toward the window, his back to me, shoulders tense.
He'd had other women before, but those were easily removed from his life. Vanessa, however, was different—persistent, ever-present. He deliberately protected her, and that made her impossible for me to eliminate. This realization broke my heart more than anything.
Rhett remained silent. I stood, straightened my clothes, and walked toward the door with as much dignity as I could muster.
"I'm tired. I'm going home," I said flatly. "If you're not back by eleven, don't bother coming home at all."
Leaving the room, I made my way through The Velvet Club's opulent lobby, only to find Amy waiting anxiously by the marble column near the entrance.
She rushed toward me, concern etched across her face. "Ms. Ross, are you alright?
"Why are you still here?" I asked, surprised to see her.
"I was worried about you," she replied, fidgeting with the strap of her purse. "So I asked the waitress to let me wait for you in the lobby."
She glanced around nervously before continuing. "I heard that was the Hayes heir who took you away. Everyone says he has quite the temper. Did he... hurt you?
I thought of the cold detachment in his eyes and laughed bitterly. "I'm fine. Let me call you a car. You've done enough tonight."
"What about the collaboration?" she asked nervously. "Is it... did we lose it?"
"Honestly, Amy, we're better off without this kind of partnership."
Her worried expression deepened. "But Mr. Donovan will be expecting results. He's already talking about the publicity from working with Luxe Gems."
I sighed, massaging my temple where a headache was beginning to form. Through the grand windows, I spotted a yellow cab pulling up to the curb.
"Your ride's here," I said, gently steering her toward the exit. "We'll figure out Donovan tomorrow. Just go home and get some rest."
I watched Amy slide into the taxi, feeling a twinge of guilt for dragging her into this. As the cab pulled away, I lingered by the entrance, reluctant to return to an empty mansion. That's when I heard it—urgent voices and hurried footsteps.
Emergency medical technicians were loading someone onto a stretcher—a man in an expensive but now bloodied suit. His face was barely recognizable beneath the swelling and bruises, but something about him seemed familiar.
Before I could place him, Mark materialized at my elbow, one of Rhett's most trusted security details.
"Mrs. Hayes," he said professionally. "The boss asked me to ensure you get home safely."
I glanced back at the injured man being loaded into an ambulance. "What happened to him?"
Mark's expression remained composed. "Some guests don't understand the club's policies. The situation has been handled."
A chill ran down my spine as I recognized the victim—James Peterson, the Marketing Director at Luxe Gems.
Who had done this to him? The security of the club could have handled him, but they wouldn't have gone this far. Was it Rhett? Hah, figures. He might not care about me personally, but he would certainly protect his wife's reputation at all costs. Talk about double standards.
"I can drive myself," I said, knowing it was pointless.
"Mr. Hayes insists," Mark replied, already opening the door to the waiting town car.
As I pushed open the door of our estate, exhaustion weighed on my shoulders like a winter coat. The night had settled deep over Boston, matching my mood. What I didn't expect was a middle-aged man in an impeccable suit standing in our living room, medical bag in hand.
"Mrs. Hayes," he greeted me with practiced professionalism. "I'm Dr. Thompson. Mr. Hayes instructed me to examine your knee."
I glanced down, noticing the injury. The blood had dried around the edges.
"That won't be necessary. I can handle it myself." My attempt at dismissal sounded hollow even to my own ears.
Dr. Thompson remained unmoved. "Mr. Hayes was quite insistent, ma'am. He specifically mentioned that you tend to neglect your own wellbeing."
Of course he did. Even when being thoughtful, Rhett managed to be insufferably controlling.