BAD WIFE

Chapter {3}

"Clair."

The voice sounded distant, like it was echoing through water. Clarissa barely flinched.

Her body was heavy—so heavy. Her limbs felt like they were underwater, weightless but impossible to move. Sleep tugged at her bones like gravity, and honestly, she didn't care anymore. Not about where she was. Not about who was calling her. Not about anything. All she wanted was darkness, warmth, and silence. Just let her rest.

"Clair."

The voice was more insistent now. A thumb gently pried open one of her eyelids, letting in an intrusive flood of light that made her wince. The world was a smear of colors and blurs—unfocused, distant, surreal.

She blinked slowly, barely processing anything. Whoever it was, they could've been a ghost for all she cared.

A firm arm slipped behind her back. She was hoisted upright against a warm chest—rough fabric brushing her cheek. "Come on. Get up."

Suddenly, she was standing. Or at least, she was being made to stand. Strong hands gripped her sides, steadying her. Her knees buckled beneath her, but she didn't fall—arms caught her before she could collapse. A familiar scent filled her nose. Musk and spice. Clean and masculine. Her lashes fluttered open again, and her blurred vision sharpened just enough to register the face in front of her.

"Oh. You," she slurred.

"Yeah... me." Jacob's voice was tight, frustrated, but underneath it, unmistakably worried.

Before she could slump again, he scooped her up into his arms and carried her across the crowded club, people parting in confusion as he marched her to an empty table and sat her down on its edge. Her legs dangled loosely. She blinked around, finally noticing the pulsing lights, the vibrating bass, the blur of sweaty bodies dancing. The music that had been pounding for hours... she was only now hearing it.

Weird.

Jacob stood firmly between her knees, cupping her cheeks in both hands. His thumbs gently tilted her chin, angling her face toward his so he could study her. His brows were drawn together with surgical focus, his jaw tight as he scanned her skin for bruises. His gaze dropped to her pupils, then to her wrist, checking her pulse with two fingers.

She giggled lazily. "Doctor now?"

He didn't smile.

"Did you take a drink from anyone?" he asked sharply.

She was slow to answer, her words swimming in molasses. "Mmhmm."

His fingers gripped her chin a little tighter, forcing her drooping eyes to focus. "Clair. Listen to me. This is important. Who gave you the drink?"

Her lashes fluttered. "Hmm..."

He shook her gently. "Clair."

She blinked, confused. "Baylee," she finally mumbled.

Jacob exhaled hard, the tension in his shoulders loosening just slightly. Relief flashed in his eyes, but only for a second before the frustration returned. He rubbed his hand down his face and sighed.

He'd gotten the call twenty minutes ago—a friend of his happened to be at the same club and saw Clarissa passed out, slumped in a booth like a forgotten doll. He hadn't even told Baylee he was coming. He just ran.

"How much have you had to drink?" he asked, stepping closer again.

Clarissa tilted sideways, almost falling off the edge of the table. "A lot, obviously," she murmured, her voice oddly childlike.