CHAPTER 32: CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

WARNING: This Chapter is unhinged just like Carlos behavior. Read at your own risk.

The night in the Thompson estate was heavy and silent. In the chambers of the second son, Ashlyn had been waiting for hours, her anxiety a cold, coiling knot in her stomach. The disastrous homecoming had ended with her returning to the estate alone, her pride in tatters, her new marriage already a bitter, humiliating failure.

She had dismissed her maid, bathed, and changed into her finest silk nightgown—a sheer, pale lavender creation designed to entice, not to comfort. But the man it was intended for was not there. The clock on the mantelpiece chimed, the sound unnaturally loud, striking eleven. With every tick, her fear and desperation grew. She had to fix this. Her entire future, her escape from her past life’s fate, depended on her ability to manage this man.

The door latch clicked.

Her head snapped up, her heart leaping into her throat. The door swung open, and Carlos walked in. He looked tired, his clothes slightly rumpled, and he carried the faint scent of wine and the outdoors.

"Carlos," she said, her voice a soft, tremulous whisper. She rushed towards him, her hands outstretched, her face arranged in a mask of worried, wifely concern, intending to wrap him in a comforting hug.

He walked right past her, not even turning his head. It was as if she were a piece of furniture, a part of the room that required no acknowledgment. Her arms froze in mid-air, and she was left standing alone in the center of the room, feeling small, foolish, and invisible.

He went to the vanity mirror, his back to her, and began to mechanically remove his cravat. His reflection in the glass was cold and distant.

Ashlyn took a shaky breath, swallowing her pride. She had to be the one to apologize. Her new life depended on it. She followed him, stopping a few feet behind him.

"I was rash today," she began, her voice soft and submissive. "At my parents’ home. It... it’s only because I care so much about you. Seeing you with... with her... it made me forget myself."

Carlos ignored her. He unwound the cravat, his movements precise, and folded it neatly, placing it on the vanity.

She tried again, her voice a little more desperate. "I told the kitchen to prepare your favorite food," she said, trying to sound helpful and domestic. "It’s been kept warm for you, if you’re hungry."

He still did not respond. He unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirt, his reflection staring blankly ahead. He pulled the shirt off, tossing it onto a nearby chair, and then sat on the edge of the bed, his back still to her. She watched the muscles in his shoulders and back, which had once seemed so strong and protective, now looking hard and unwelcoming.

He bent down and proceeded to unbuckle his belt. The sharp, metallic jingle of the buckle was the only sound in the room. Ashlyn’s panic was rising, a sour taste in her mouth. Her apologies, her attempts at care—they were all hitting a wall of complete, suffocating indifference.

"Carlos, please," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Don’t be angry at me."

He closed his eyes for a long moment, letting out a heavy, annoyed sigh, as if her very voice was a burden to him. He opened them again, his gaze dropping to the floor. It was then he saw, in his peripheral vision, a soft pool of lavender silk.

Her nightgown had been tossed onto the carpet.

"I apologize," she said.

He looked up slowly. She was standing before him, her body illuminated by the soft lamplight, completely unclad. She was trembling, from the cold, from fear, but she held his gaze, trying to look seductive, to remind him of the passion they had shared in this very room on their wedding night. This was her last, most desperate gamble.

"Whatever she can give you," Ashlyn said, her voice a husky whisper, "I can do better."

Carlos’s gaze, which had been so cold, now traveled over her, from her face, down her neck, over her breasts and the curve of her hips. It was a slow, assessing look, not of a lover, but of a buyer. A low sound, almost a gulp, came from his throat.

"Are you willing?" he asked. His voice was hoarse, but not with the simple passion she had expected. It was something else, something deeper and unsettling.

Willing? She had offered herself, what else could he mean? But she was in too deep to back out now. She gave a small, jerky nod.

He didn’t move towards her. He didn’t smile. He simply leaned down, his eyes still fixed on her, and reached under the bed. He pulled out a small, flat, dark-wood box. It was old, the hinges dark. He held it out to her.

Her mind raced. Was this a gift? A strange, late wedding present? A peace offering? Her hands trembled as she took the box. It was surprisingly heavy. She fumbled with the small brass latch and opened it.

And she dropped it. The box hit the floor with a loud clatter, and its contents fell out onto the rug.

It was a whip. Not a large, brutal thing, but a thin, black, coiled riding crop, its handle wrapped in worn leather, its end frayed slightly. In the context of her nakedness and his cold stare, it was the most terrifying thing she had ever seen.

He calmly bent down and picked it up, tapping it lightly against the palm of his hand.

Thwack. Thwack.

The sound was dull, sickening.

"Don’t worry," he said. His charming smile, the one she had adored, the one that had convinced her to choose him, returned. But it didn’t reach his eyes. His eyes were bright, almost feverish. "It won’t hurt. Not really. I promise... you will enjoy it."

A cold, paralyzing terror seized Ashlyn. Is this what gives him pleasure? Pain? This was not the man she had married. This was not the safe, gentle, honorable second son. Derek, in her past life, had been cold, cruel, and neglectful, but this... this was a dark, twisted path she had never even imagined. She looked at him, at his kind, smiling face, and at the whip in his hand, and the two images would not fit together in her mind.

"Come here," he commanded. His voice was still soft, still "kind."

She couldn’t move. Her feet felt as if they had been nailed to the floor. She was rooted in place, trembling so violently her teeth began to chatter.

He saw her fear. He sighed, a small, impatient sound, as if dealing with a difficult child. He dropped the whip onto the bed, the coil landing softly on the thick coverlet. He stood up and walked towards her, his charming, handsome facade now fully in place.

"Ash," he said. The endearment, one he had never used before, was a horrifying shock. It sounded so loving, so intimate, coming from the man who had just shown her a whip.

He reached her, his hands coming up to cup her face, his touch as loving and gentle as it had been that morning. "Ash," he continued, his thumbs stroking her terror-stricken cheeks. "Don’t be scared, okay? I won’t hurt you. I would never hurt you. I promise."

His voice was a soft, hypnotic lure. His touch was kind. He was the man she had wanted, the man she had chosen. Her terrified, confused mind, desperate to believe, to make this all go away, to fix it, betrayed her. She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

The moment she did, his smile became truly radiant. He was so happy.

He scooped her up in his arms, her naked, trembling body held tight against his chest. He carried her to the bed, just as a groom would carry his new bride. He sat down against the headboard, pulling her onto his lap so she was straddling him, her legs on either side of his, her body exposed to him. It was an intimate, possessive, and utterly vulnerable position.

He didn’t reach for the whip. Not yet.

He simply looked at her, his eyes dark with an emotion she could not name. And then, his hand, the same hand that had just caressed her face, swung back and struck her, hard, across her bare backside.

The sound was sharp, shocking, like a firecracker exploding in the silent room. The pain was immediate—a bright, stinging, humiliating burn that was so unexpected, so foreign, that a scream was torn from her throat.

It was a sound of pure shock and pain, but to him, it was like music. His senses seemed to fill with it, his eyes darkening further. Before she could cry out again, his mouth crashed down on hers, his kiss hard and demanding, swallowing her sobs, muffling her sounds.

And in that one, terrible, endless moment, held captive on his lap, her body stinging with a pain she had never known, his kiss not one of passion but of possession, of silencing... Ashlyn knew. She had run from a future of cold, indifferent neglect, only to willingly, blindly, throw herself into a smiling, intimate, and infinitely more terrifying hell.

She had made the wrong choice.