Chapter 4
Percival followed the sound and strode to the door of the Supreme VIP room at the end of the hallway.
Through the half-open door, wild laser lights flashed to the pounding beat of deafening bass. Waves of laughter—male and female voices mingling—spilled out.
He shoved the heavy door open.
The scene inside hit him like a punch. Percival's pupils contracted sharply. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, veins bulging across his knuckles.
Sitting in the center of the booth was the woman he'd spent all day searching for.
Florence.
But the woman before him felt utterly foreign.
For three years, Florence had always worn plain, modest clothes around him. No makeup. Hair neatly tied back. She was like a glass of tasteless water.
But now—Florence was dazzling. Impossible to look away from.
She wore a wine-red silk slip dress. The neckline plunged low, exposing a generous expanse of delicate skin and her elegant collarbone.
The hem barely covered the tops of her thighs. As she crossed her legs, her long, slender limbs gleamed under the dim lights.
She wore bold, aggressive makeup. Her eyes tilted sharply at the corners. Her red lips were lush and tempting. Long, wavy hair cascaded lazily over her bare shoulders.
She was leaning back on the sofa, laughing freely.
And beside her, pressed close, was a young, handsome man.
The man wore a white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar. His face was deceptively innocent and good-looking. He held an ambiguously colored cocktail and was practically nestled into Florence's arms.
His slender fingers held a bright red cherry, which he brought to Florence's lips with a coy, sugary voice. "Come on, sweetheart, just one more taste. I made this drink especially for you."
Florence laughed softly, her gaze sultry and teasing.
She didn't refuse. She leaned forward slightly and bit the cherry from his hand, her red lips brushing his fingertips.
The sight was like a poisoned thorn driving straight into Percival's eyes.
A violent fury he'd never felt before shattered the cage of his restraint.
His wife—the woman who belonged to him, at least in name—was here, behind his back, playing around with another man.
"Florence!" Percival's voice was a low, vicious snarl. He stormed across the room, stepping over scattered bottles, bringing a terrifying cold rage with him.
Someone fumbled to turn off the music. The silence that followed was suffocating.
Florence looked up at the sound. Her hazy, drunken eyes landed on Percival's dark, furious face. She paused for only a second, then casually looked away.
"Well, if it isn't Mr. Churchill," Mireille called out, whistling. "What brings you to a place like this? Not spending time with your Ms. Stewart tonight?"
Percival didn't spare Mireille a single glance. His eyes were locked on Florence, sharp as blades, as if he wanted to tear the man beside her into pieces.
"Uh, sir, who are you looking for—" The young man still hadn't figured out what was happening. He tried to stand up and shield Florence.
"Get lost!" Percival's eyes blazed with violence. He grabbed the man by the collar and threw him onto the sofa like a piece of trash.
"What are you doing?" Florence's smile vanished instantly. She shot to her feet.
Before she could react, Percival seized her slender wrist.
His grip was crushing. His fingers felt like iron, nearly breaking her bones.
"You're coming home with me." Percival's voice was cold and unyielding. He dragged her toward the door.
"Percival, let go of me! What's wrong with you?" Florence struggled desperately, her heels stumbling on the polished marble floor.
Mireille tried to intervene, but one murderous look from Percival froze her in place.
Percival hauled Florence all the way out of the bar.
The night air was cool, but it did nothing to extinguish the rage consuming him.
He strode straight to the black Maybach parked at the curb, yanked open the passenger door, and shoved Florence roughly inside.
The door slammed shut with a deafening bang, sealing off the outside world.
Percival rounded the car and slid into the driver's seat, locking the doors.
The confined space was suffocating.
Percival's clean cedar scent clashed violently with the sweet alcohol and perfume clinging to Florence, creating a dangerous tension.
Percival turned toward her, his towering frame closing in, his dark eyes burning with fury. "Florence, are you that desperate for a man? You went to a place like that to find some random guy? Is that your so-called reason for divorce?"
Florence rubbed her reddened wrist where he'd gripped her too hard. She met his gaze coldly, a mocking smile curling her lips.
"Yeah. I am desperate for a man. So what?" Florence lifted her delicate chin, her eyes full of defiance. "Percival, look at me."
She deliberately pushed her chest forward. The wine-red slip dress hugged her curves. "I have looks. I have a body. I have money and status. Why should I waste my youth on an impotent man like you?"
"You—" A vein throbbed violently at Percival's temple.
"What?" Florence cut him off, her smile sharp and dazzling. "Since Mr. Churchill can't give me what a normal woman needs, of course I'm going to enjoy myself while I'm young. What's wrong with that? That guy tonight? He's way more fun than you. He knows how to please a woman. And from the looks of it, he's way more capable than you."
"Florence, you're asking for it!"
His male pride shredded beneath her words, Percival snapped.
He lunged forward, his large hand gripping the back of her head and yanking her toward him.
"Since you're so desperate for a man, I'll give you what you want. I'll show you just how 'capable' I am."
Before she could respond, Percival lowered his head and crushed his lips against hers.
It wasn't a kiss. It was punishment. A conquest.
His movements were rough and wild, full of aggression. His teeth grazed her lips. He tasted blood.
Florence's eyes flew open. Her mind went blank.
In three years of marriage, this was the first time Percival had touched her. But it was in such a tense situation.
"Let go—" She struggled, pounding her fists against his hard chest.
