Chapter 3

Marlowe's POV

I huddled in the corner of my study like a burglar in my own home, my eyes glued to the phone screen.

2:15 AM. Through the cracked door, Adrien’s breathing from the master bedroom was so steady.

The security camera feed had been completely empty for two hours. Just as my nerves were about to snap—a shadow darted past the doorframe.

She was back.

Wearing that same black silk nightgown, she slipped onto the bed with feline grace. She pressed heavily against Adrien’s chest, her crimson lips hovering by his ear, whispering God-knows-what.

"Gotcha," I ground out through clenched teeth. I kicked the door open and flipped the light switch in one fluid motion.

Blinded by the sudden glare, Adrien threw an arm over his eyes. Beside him, Silas let out a terrified whimper.

No black nightgown. No woman.

"Fuck—where is she?!" I ripped the closet open, frantically pounding on that damn full-length mirror.

"Marlowe?" Adrien sat up, his brow furrowed in a tight knot. "Aren't you supposed to be in Chicago?"

"If I didn't fake my trip, how else was I supposed to catch the monster you’re hiding in here?" I hurled the throw pillows off the bed, manic and utterly unhinged.

Suddenly, that cloying, synthetic floral scent hit my nostrils again.

"Do you smell that?!" I lunged at the bed, pointing at the empty air. "That disgusting perfume!"

Adrien shoved me back, his voice dripping with condescending authority. "Enough, Marlowe. Non compos mentis—not of sound mind. I am sick of these paranoid theatrics. You’ve lost all grip on reality."

He threw off the covers and stalked out of the bedroom without looking back.

The house plunged into a dead silence. Only Silas remained, cowering and shivering in the corner.

Ice-cold dread washed down my spine. He was playing me. Letting only me smell the perfume, leaving just a blur on the cameras... He was trying to gaslight me into a raving lunatic in front of everyone, leaving absolutely zero proof.

Early the next morning, I tailed Adrien's car.

He drove onto the Ashmont campus, alright—but he bypassed his Classics Department entirely. Instead, he circled to the east wing, parking outside a building he had never once mentioned. The sign read: Ainsworth Biomedical Research Center.

Before stepping out of his car, he cast a paranoid glance around the lot. He pulled a pitch-black keycard from his suit jacket—completely different from his standard faculty ID—and swiped himself in through a side door.

I staked out the parking lot for three grueling hours.

When he finally emerged, he subconsciously adjusted his cuffs—a practiced gesture he looked like he’d repeated hundreds of times. Even from half a block away, I swore I could smell that sickening sweetness clinging to him.

That evening, I cornered him in the foyer.

"How was work at the research center?" I cut straight to the chase.

Adrien paused mid-way through taking off his coat. A split-second later, his mask of composed hypocrisy slipped right back in place. "What are you talking about? I was with Dean Whitaker all day discussing tenure evaluations."

"Cut the bullshit!" I slammed the spy photos onto the coffee table. "You never went to your building! A Classics professor locked inside the Ainsworth Biomedical Center for three solid hours—tell me, what the hell were you doing in there?"

His expression darkened instantly. The polite, scholarly mask shattered entirely.

"You followed me?" He took a menacing step forward, his voice dripping with ice. "You are truly beyond saving, Marlowe. Perhaps it is time I called my lawyers. Silas doesn’t need a paranoid, schizophrenic mother. It’s practically child abuse."

Divorce. Using a psychiatric diagnosis to strip away my custody rights.

The threat twisted into my absolute weakest spot like a rusted blade.

Head-to-head, I stood zero chance.

I took a deep breath, swallowing the humiliation and white-hot rage burning in my throat.

"I'm sorry..." I dropped my head abruptly, forcing my shoulders to tremble. I squeezed out a few pathetic tears. "I’m so sorry, Adrien. The stress has been unbearable lately. This deadline is suffocating me... I must be hallucinating."

Adrien froze. Then, a dark satisfaction crossed his face. He was utterly relishing my pathetic, groveling surrender.

"I'll do better. I’ll learn to be a good wife." I stepped closer, helping him out of his coat, speaking in my most submissive voice. "I made dinner. Steak, with your favorite mashed potatoes."

To completely sell the lie, I initiated that night. Fighting down the bile rising in my stomach, I molded my body against his in pure submission. In the darkness, he stroked my back, exhaling a deeply satisfied sigh—the sound of a man back in total control.

"My girl. You should have been this obedient long ago."

1:00 AM. Adrien’s heavy, steady snoring started like clockwork.

I lay dead still, my eyes wide open in the dark—lucid and lethal.

By the closet, the full-length mirror emitted an agonizingly faint scrape of glass—like a placid water surface being silently sliced open.

I held my breath, my fingernails digging into the bedsheets.

In the air, that cloying, synthetic floral scent was closing in fast.

Two seconds later—

A bone-chilling hand settled silently, agonizingly slowly, onto my shoulder.