Chapter 9
At 1:00 AM, Claire's phone buzzed on the nightstand.
It was a text from Joshuah. Just a GPS pin drop and a single sentence: Mr. Guthrie is consuming a significant amount of alcohol.
The location was a hyper-exclusive, underground nightclub in Soho.
Claire remembered the red warning asterisks on the medical report. She didn't bother changing out of her slip dress; she just threw a heavy trench coat over it, shoved her bare feet into boots, and ran out the door.
When she pushed through the heavy, soundproofed doors of the club, a wall of deafening, chest-rattling bass hit her.
The room was bathed in strobing neon lights. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, expensive perfume, and vaporized alcohol. Bodies writhed on the dance floor in a chaotic mass.
Claire pushed her way through the sweaty crowd, taking elbows to the ribs, her eyes scanning the dark perimeter for the VIP booths.
In the deepest, most secluded alcove, she found him.
Cooper was slouched back on a curved leather sofa, surrounded by his wealthy friends. Kendall was pressed tightly against his side.
In Cooper's hand was a massive crystal tumbler filled to the brim with dark, straight liquor. He raised it to his lips, tilting his head back.
Claire's mind went entirely blank.
She lunged across the low glass table. Her hand shot out and clamped around the crystal glass just as the liquid touched his lips.
She yanked it hard.
The whiskey splashed violently out of the glass, soaking the front of Cooper's white dress shirt.
Cormac, sitting across the table, immediately signaled the DJ.
The heavy bass cut out instantly. The sudden, dead silence in the VIP section was deafening.
Every single person in the booth stared at Claire. They looked at her disheveled hair, her coat thrown over a nightgown, panting like a madwoman.
Cooper slowly lowered his empty hand. He looked down at his ruined shirt, then slowly raised his eyes to Claire.
His gaze was murderous.
"Who gave you the right," he asked, his voice dangerously soft, "to walk in here?"
Claire gripped the sticky glass, her knuckles white. "Please," she begged, her voice trembling. "For your grandfather's sake. Put the alcohol down. You can't drink this."
Hearing her use Sterling as a shield again pushed Cooper over the edge.
He leaned back into the sofa, crossing his long legs. A cruel, vicious smile spread across his handsome face.
He pointed a long finger at a young, terrified male waiter holding a tray nearby.
"You want me to stop drinking?" Cooper asked loudly, ensuring everyone in the booth could hear. "Fine. Go kiss the waiter on the mouth. Right now. Do it, and I won't touch another drop tonight."
The booth erupted. The men howled with laughter, whistling and slamming the table.
Kendall covered her mouth with her hand, pretending to be shocked, but her eyes danced with pure, malicious glee.
The young waiter froze, his face turning bright red, looking around in panic.
Claire stood paralyzed. The humiliation washed over her in freezing waves. She stared at her husband, searching for any sign that he was joking. There was none. He wanted to break her.
Cooper casually reached for a fresh bottle of tequila on the table, wrapping his hand around the neck.
Claire closed her eyes. She thought of the erratic green lines on the EKG monitor, and the frail old man in the hospital bed. Her dignity meant absolutely nothing.
She turned around. Moving like a mechanical doll, she walked slowly toward the trembling waiter.
The jeers and whistles grew louder, echoing in her ears.
She stopped in front of the boy. She rose up on her tiptoes.
She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her lips against the very edge of the waiter's cheek for one agonizing second.
The blinding flash of a smartphone camera went off, capturing the exact moment of her total degradation.
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