A dense fog surrounds the villa. Andrew feels a horrible burning in the pit of his stomach and grimaces in pain. He tries to open his eyes, but his eyelids feel impossibly heavy. Someone is knocking on the door, and the sound sends shockwaves of pain through his head.

"Mr. Clifford, the bodyguards, just called and said that Miss Peters is on the way," a maid calls through the door.

Andrew desperately wants to ask which Miss Peters the maid, is referring to, but he can't seem to speak—something is pressing against his tongue. He moves his mouth and tries to spit. Eventually, he manages to get the object out. He opens his eyes and sees a sock.

With great effort, he sits up and looks at himself in the mirror across from the bed. He squints—there seems to be something back on his forehead. Eventually, everything comes into focus, and he sees the word "Bastard" written in black marker.

"Help me!" Andrew shouts.

The maid rushes in and gapes in shock at the room. Andrew is lying on the bed, covered in a quilt. The corners of the quilt have been tied around him. From a distance, he looks like an overgrown, absurd tortoise. The walls of the room have been papered in pictures of Andrew lying on the bed like a tortoise.

The maid quickly runs over and unties the quilt. Beneath the blanket, Andrew's hands have been tied. Someone has scrawled the word "bastard" across his forehead with a black marker.

"Where is Gabrielle Peters?" Andrew snarls.

Andrew struggles to his feet in disbelief and rage. He can't believe such a seemingly weak and foolish woman has trapped him like this. Andrew looks around the bedroom and scowls at the photos on the wall. In a blind rage, he begins to tear the photos down. There are hundreds, and even after several minutes, many remain on the walls.

"Mr. Clifford, your heart is weak," the maid cautions, "Perhaps you should lie down again?"

Andrew continues to tear the pictures from the wall. He runs around the room like a madman in his underwear, ignoring the maid's concern. The effort exhausts him, and he leans against the wall panting heavily.

"If you know what's good for you, you will keep this a secret," he warns.

Slowly Andrew begins to calm down. His breathing relaxes, and his heart calms. He looks down and discovers that he's wearing nothing but his underwear. He glares at the maid—who is now ogling him openly—and then looks around the room to make sure he's removed all the pictures.

Out of the corner of his eye, Andrew sees the safe. The door hangs open, and the safe looks empty—the map is gone.

"Miss Gabrielle hasn't gotten up yet," the maid answers helpfully, "She must be very tired if she's sleeping so late—she went to bed quite early last night, too."

The maid has no idea that Andrew suspects Gabrielle. Everyone in the house thinks Gabrielle is too weak to kill an ant. Andrew, on the other hand, has learned that Gabrielle is a lot older than she looks.

"Even if she has the map, it'll be hard for her to get away," Andrew thinks.

Even if Gabrielle has a map, the forest is filled with fierce and vicious animals. It'll be almost impossible for her to escape unscathed. Andrew takes slow deep breaths and reaches for a neatly-folded pile of clothing on a chair. He unfolds the shirt and sees that a giant tortoise has been painted on the front.

"How dare she!" Andrew fumes, instantly furious again.

He throws the shirt on the floor and tramples it underfoot before storming to his closet. The maid lowers her head and stares at her shoes, confused by the situation. She has no idea what's going on and is worried that her boss will somehow blame her.

"Why are you just standing there—don't you see the word written on my face?" Andrew screams, "Get me a towel at once."

The maid shudders and runs to the bathroom to get Andrew a wet towel. Andrew wipes his face violently as if he wants to scrub his skin off. The maid carefully glances up at Andrew and clears her throat nervously.

"Mr. Clifford, it's still there," she stammers.

"Get me the rubbing alcohol!" Andrew creams, "Damn it! I can't wipe it out."

The maid pours, rubbing alcohol onto another towel and passes it to Andrew. Andrew rubs his forehead, but the word remains as bold and clear as ever. Andrew throws the towel in the mirror, and the rubbing alcohol leaves a mark on the glass. Andrew curses.

"Do you want petrol?" the maid offers timidly, "I've heard that petrol is good at removing stubborn paint marks."

"Get it for me at once!" Andrew orders.

The maid turns quickly, ready to run out of the room.

"Wait a minute," Andrew calls after her, "Who did you say is on the way?"

"Mrs.—Mrs. Howel," the maid stammers.

"No, she's not Mrs. Howel anymore," Andrew says with a slight smile, "Call her Miss Peters from now on."

Andrew clutches his chest and feels his rapid heartbeat. His heart seems to have responded to the news that Avery is on the way, and it's beating out of control. Ever since his operation, the mere mention of her name is enough to send his heart into a dangerous frenzy. Andrew sighs deeply. Mentally, he has little interest in Avery, but his heart wants her desperately.

Andrew fingers a row of shirts, wondering if he should wear something special for Avery. He sighs and calls for the maid.

"Prepare the bathroom for me first and then bring the petrol," he orders, "I want to take a shower."

The maid practically sprints into the bathroom to carry out the orders. Andrew pauses and looks at a dark purple shirt. A soft voice outside the door interrupts his thoughts.

"Mr. Clifford—,," a woman calls.

Ruby Miller leans sinuously against the door.

"I've been knocking and knocking on your door, but you never answered," she pouts.

Though Andrew loves the company of beautiful women, all of his companions and guests are forbidden from entering the room without his express permission. Ruby knows this better than most—she once tries to surprise him by coming into his room unannounced, and he had her thrown into the snake pit for a month. The whole time she was there, Andrew sent her videos of him making love with other women.

Andrew holds the dark purple shirt with one hand, and a white blouse embroidered with a red rose on the chest in his other hand. His strong chest muscles are on display, and Ruby can't help but sashay towards him.

"Pick one for me," Andrew says.

"What's wrong with your face?" Ruby asks, trying to suppress a giggle.

She leans against Andrew gently and strokes the scar on his chest. She smiles up at him winningly.

"Every shirt you wear looks good," she whispers seductively, "But of course, I prefer you like this."

Andrew suddenly grabs her and throws her onto the bed. He slowly climbs over her, pressing his weight onto her.

"You think I look good if I don't wear anything?" he challenges.

"I think you look best without anything on," Ruby whispers.

She touches his back and traces the muscles with her fingertips.

"Mr. Clifford, why don't you fuck us anymore?" she asks, "We miss it, and we're starting to worry that there's something wrong with your body."

Ruby reaches down to grab his dick. She's shocked to discover that he's still flaccid. It seems that Andrew has no reaction to her sensuous curves or their sexual position. Ruby doesn't believe it, so she touches him again.

"There is indeed something wrong," Andrew says with a sly smile, "What do you suggest I do about it?"

"You are so bad!" Ruby laughs, hammering his chest, "But if I can't solve the problem, I think you should see a doctor. We're worried about you."

"I'll have a doctor come shortly," Andrew says, smiling lasciviously.

He knows a doctor can't fix the problem. After the heart operation, he only desires Avery. Though he often thinks about his own personal harem, his heart won't let him enjoy the company of other women.