Later that Evening

The last of the guests vanished into the midnight air. Silence claimed the limestone halls, broken only by the rhythmic, heavy snoring of John. He lay sprawled across the velvet sofa, a half-empty champagne glass precariously tilted in his grip.
Jefferson stood over him, his bald scalp shimmering under the dim lights. His gaze drifted to Nicole, roaming the red lace that barely clung to her curves.

"A pitiful sight," Jefferson murmured.

Nicole hugged her arms across her chest, the fabric scratching against her skin. "He's just tired."

"He's unconscious. There's a difference."

Jefferson stepped closer, the scent of expensive tobacco and aged scotch enveloping her. He reached out, a single finger tracing the line of her collarbone, pressing just hard enough to leave a mark.

"Do you think he'd recognize you if you came back as a different woman?"

"I don't know what you mean," she whispered.

"I mean you're playing a part, Nicole. And you play it so well."

He leaned in, his voice a low vibration against her ear that sent a shudder down her spine.

"Martha is asleep. The house is ours."

"Please, we should just go home," Nicole replied, though she didn't pull away.

Jefferson gripped her elbow, his fingers digging into her soft flesh.

"You aren't leaving yet. I have a few more requirements for the evening."

He steered her away from the living room, the click of his leather shoes echoing on the marble floor. Nicole glanced back at John, who remained dead to the world, oblivious to the theft of his wife.

They reached the guest wing. Jefferson pushed open a heavy oak door, revealing a room bathed in moonlight and the scent of fresh linens. He stepped inside and pulled her after him, the door clicking shut with a finality that made her heart hammer against her ribs.

The room felt cavernous, the air cool against her exposed thighs.

"Stand there," he commanded, gesturing to the center of the rug. "And don't move until I tell you."

Nicole obeyed, her breath hitching. She watched him shed his suit jacket, the fabric hitting the floor with a muffled thud.

"You look terrified, Nicole," he noted, a predatory glint in his eyes. "Tell me, does the fear make you wet?"