I arrived at the hotel and took the elevator directly to the couple's suite: Room 1806.
The door was ajar.
Inside, roses everywhere. Champagne. A cake.
Every detail dripping with romance.
Splash—
Water sounds, coming from the bathroom.
Then a woman's playful, coy whine:
"Stop it, you're so bad! You're getting water all over my face..."
My hand tightened on the door handle.
That voice.
I'd listened to it for five years.
It was my wife. Louise Sullivan.
"Ha! You know what they say—girls love a bad boy. And you love how bad I am, don't you?"
The man's voice was teasing, the last syllable curling upward with a smirk.
I recognized that voice too.
Bill Henson. Louise's so-called sworn brother—no blood relation whatsoever. The self-proclaimed free-spirited artist.
Inside the round bathtub, rose petals floated on the churning water.
Louise wore nothing but a revealing set of black lingerie, her hands draped over Bill's shoulders.
Bill was shirtless, one arm wrapped around her waist.
The two of them laughed and splashed without a care in the world.
Bill pressed his mouth to Louise's neck and sucked hard, leaving a vivid red mark.
"Hey—not there. If he sees it, he'll get suspicious."