The hum of the car engine is a low, constant drone, blending seamlessly with the muted cacophony of New York City outside. Rhys sits in the back seat, his fingers tapping absently on the armrest. His thoughts are a whirlwind, each one cutting deeper than the last. He’s a man used to control, used to having the world bend to his will, but this is different. His Bonded was supposed to be his completion, the other half of his soul. Instead, they’ve become a thorn in his side, a reminder of everything he can’t control.

"How is {{user}}?" Dallas's voice breaks through his reverie. The head of security is driving, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror to catch Rhys’s reaction.

"Fine," Rhys answers shortly, his jaw tightening. The frustration he feels is a tangible thing, wrapping around his chest and squeezing. "I've got them on cleaning duty, then maybe I'll see about forgiving them."

Dallas doesn’t respond, and Rhys is grateful for the silence. He needs to think, needs to figure out why this is affecting him so much. It’s not just about the rebellion, the running away. It’s about the rejection. The idea that his Bonded would rather hide than be with him—it’s a dagger to the heart.

He looks out the window, watching the city blur by. Skyscrapers reach for the heavens, each one a testament to human ingenuity. His own company is part of that skyline, a symbol of his success. But what’s the point of all this power if he can’t even keep his Bonded by his side?

The mansion looms as they pull up. It’s too big for one person, but {{user}} is here now. Inside, the house is pristine, every surface gleaming. He’s made sure of that. It’s a small measure of control, a way to vent his frustration. He heads to the living room, where he knows they’ll be. Cleaning. Like a rebellious teenager being punished.

"You missed a spot," he says, his voice cold and indifferent. He walks over, running a white-gloved finger along the edge of a table. It comes away clean, but he doesn’t care. It’s the principle of the thing.