Chapter 585 Nausea
George stepped closer, his voice low but sharp, "You know what Emma hates the most? Being forced. I made that mistake before. Are you really gonna repeat it?"
Lightning flashed outside, lighting up Michael's suddenly tense face.
"Emma faked her death to get away from me because she couldn't stand being controlled," George's voice dripped with bitter self-mockery. "What you're doing now is even worse than what I did."
Michael's fist slammed into the wall, his knuckles bleeding, "Shut up!"
"What, did I hit a nerve?" George sneered. "You say you love Emma, but you pull this crap? How are you any different from a rapist?"
The words cut into Michael like a knife. His pupils shrank, and he staggered as if he'd been hit.
On the bed, Emma let out a faint moan, drawing both men's attention. Her eyelashes fluttered like she was about to wake up, but then she sank back into deeper unconsciousness.
Michael's expression changed. He looked down at his blood-stained hand, suddenly feeling a wave of disgust. He had almost...
"Get out." His voice was hoarse and broken. "Take Emma and leave."
George was momentarily stunned, not expecting Michael to back down so suddenly.
"But," Michael's head snapped up, his eyes dark with a terrifying intensity, "if you touch her while she's out, I'll make you wish you were dead."
George scoffed, "You think I'm like you?" He walked to the bed and carefully picked up Emma. Her body was burning hot, her brow furrowed, and she mumbled incoherently.
Michael stood still, watching as George wrapped Emma's exposed shoulders in his coat with the gentleness of handling a fragile treasure. The sight stung his eyes.
At the door, George paused. "How long until the drug wears off?"
"By morning," Michael's voice was dry.
George nodded and said no more. Celeste, her eyes red, handed him an umbrella. He took it without a word and walked into the rain.
As the villa door closed, Michael collapsed to his knees as if his bones had been removed. His fingers dug into his hair, pulling at the roots, a beast-like growl escaping his throat.
He had almost become the person he despised the most.
Celeste stood at the top of the stairs, watching the usually composed Michael curl up on the floor like a madman. She wanted to approach but heard Michael's raspy voice, "Get out, all of you."
George's car sped through the storm. In the back seat, Lucas had fallen asleep, his small head resting against the car seat. Emma, half-awake, leaned against George's shoulder, her breathing still rapid.
"Emma? Can you hear me?" George asked softly.
Emma's eyelashes fluttered, her lips parted slightly, but she only made a few incoherent sounds. Her fingers unconsciously clutched his collar, her hot breath on his neck.
George's Adam's apple bobbed as he forced himself to look away. He rolled down the window, letting the cold rain hit his face. The words he had said to Michael were as much a reminder to himself.
Back at the villa, Michael staggered to the liquor cabinet. He grabbed a bottle of whiskey and drank straight from it, the alcohol burning his throat but not quenching the shame inside.
The man in the mirror made Michael sick. His meticulously styled hair was disheveled, his expensive shirt stained with blood and rain, and his eyes, bloodshot and filled with a desire and madness he barely recognized.
"Damn it!" Michael punched the mirror, the glass cutting his knuckles, blood trickling down like ugly worms.
Celeste hid around the corner, tears streaming down her face as she listened to the sound of shattering bottles. She pulled out her phone, her fingers trembling as she dialed Zachary's number.
"Celeste?" Zachary's usual cheerful tone came through the line.
"Zachary," Celeste choked out, "can you come to the villa? Michael's in a bad state."
There was a two-second pause before Zachary's voice turned serious. "I'm on my way."
Half an hour later, Zachary arrived, drenched from the rain. He walked in to find the place in shambles, expensive wine spilled on the carpet, antique pieces shattered. Michael was slumped by the bar, clutching a half-empty bottle of whiskey.
"Mr. Russell, planning to demolish the place?" Zachary joked, carefully stepping over the broken glass.
Michael didn't even look up, just took another swig. The alcohol dripped from his chin, mixing with the rainwater, staining his white shirt.
Zachary sighed, dropping his usual carefree demeanor. He sat beside his friend, pulling out two clean glasses from the cabinet.
"If you're going to drink, do it right." He took the bottle from Michael, pouring them both a drink. "I'll join you."
Michael finally looked up, his eyes unfocused. "I almost..."
"I know," Zachary interrupted, clinking his glass against Michael's. "But you didn't."
"But I wanted to!" Michael suddenly raged, sweeping the glasses off the bar. "Seeing Emma like that, all I could think about were filthy thoughts!"
The sound of breaking glass echoed through the empty villa. Celeste covered her mouth outside, tears falling.
Zachary waited for Michael to calm down before speaking softly. "But you stopped." He met Michael's bloodshot eyes. "That's what matters."
Michael slumped, his voice barely a whisper. "I feel disgusting."
"Then remember this feeling," Zachary said seriously. "Next time you're about to make a mistake, think of tonight."
The rain outside began to ease, and Zachary and Michael drank in silence. Some wounds had to be licked alone, some hurdles crossed by oneself. Zachary knew all he could do was help Michael through this long night.
Meanwhile, George's car struggled through the rainy night. Emma's drug seemed to have peaked, and she restlessly squirmed in the passenger seat, her hot hand on George's thigh.
"So hot," Emma mumbled, tugging at her collar, revealing flushed skin.
George slammed on the brakes, the car skidding two feet on the wet road before stopping. His temples throbbed, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.
"Emma, don't move," George tried to remove her hand, but she grabbed his in return.
Emma leaned closer, her breath, tinged with the essence of the alcohol, warm against his ear. "George, I feel awful."
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