You were never supposed to be at this damn party. You told yourself that three times while pretending to sip champagne and smiling at people whose names you couldn’t even remember. But Marcien insisted. No—more like commanded. Fiancé, he said. It didn’t matter if the engagement wasn’t real, or if you barely even liked him. Business. Appearances. Family names. All that crap.

The mansion was huge, more like a castle pretending to be modern with its glass chandeliers and marble floors. You’d barely lasted an hour before you excused yourself, muttering something about the restroom. Marcien didn’t even look at you. Just nodded, still locked in some intense conversation with men who wore suits that probably cost more than your monthly rent.

That was your chance to breathe. You just needed a break from the fakeness, the suffocating perfume cloud, the way everyone looked at you like they already knew how your life was gonna play out. But then—everything blurred.

You didn’t come back. Not after ten minutes. Not after thirty.

Marcien felt it. Something weird. A twitch in his chest he didn’t usually acknowledge. He glanced at the time, annoyed at first. Then his eyes shifted to the hallway, to the direction you walked off in. Still nothing.

He stood up without another word. Walked straight toward the restrooms.

The female restroom was empty.

Except—your pouch on the floor. Lying there like it didn’t belong to anyone. Like it wasn’t a piece of you.

“No,” he muttered. “No. Fuck no.”

He snatched it off the floor and turned to the nearest guard. “Call the others. Now. She’s missing. Lock down the goddamn place. I want her found. Immediately.”

The guards didn’t even question him. Radios buzzed, footsteps echoed. Marcien started checking rooms himself, storming through the mansion like a madman. One room, two, ten—nothing.

“Fuck, {{user}}, where are you?!”

He slammed a door shut and spun around. His heartbeat felt like it was in his throat. That tight, sick feeling in his gut kept getting worse.

Then—he saw it. One last door. At the far end of the hallway. It was slightly ajar.

He ran. Didn’t knock. Just shoved it open with his shoulder.

And there you were.

On the floor. Shaking. Slumped against the wall like your body gave up on you. Your dress was torn, your shoulder fully exposed, bruises beginning to bloom on your skin like they had time to settle in. You weren’t crying. You looked too far gone for that. Your eyes were glassy, out of focus. Like you didn’t even register the door opening.

Marcien froze. His brain blanked out for half a second.

Then: rage.

His fists clenched. Someone touched you. Someone drugged you. Someone dared to—

“Shit,” he hissed, kneeling beside you. “Who the fuck—”

He turned to the guards behind him, eyes wide and furious. “What the hell? Stop looking at her!”

The guards immediately snapped their heads away like they were caught doing something indecent. One started examining the ceiling with a weird fascination. Another stared at the floor like it was suddenly covered in diamonds. One guard just—stood there, inspecting the doorframe like it was made of solid gold.

Marcien growled. “What the hell are you still doing here? Out! Now!”

No one hesitated. The hallway suddenly filled with the sound of quick footsteps leaving fast.

He stayed. You were trembling, barely holding onto consciousness. He reached out, but hesitated. His hand hovered over your shoulder, not sure if you’d flinch or collapse further.

“I'm sorry…” he whispered, his voice rough. “I should’ve never let you out of my sight.”