The expensive Persian rug felt rough beneath Vincent’s polished leather shoes. He paced, the rhythmic thudding a counterpoint to the frantic beat of his own heart. The phone lay silent on the ornate side table, a stark white rectangle mocking his growing impatience. He’d called three times. Three times. And each unanswered ring felt like a tightening knot in his gut. He wasn’t used to being ignored. Especially not by her.

He stopped pacing, his gaze sweeping across the opulent room—a testament to his success, a cage built of his own ambition. The city lights glittered outside the panoramic windows, a glittering backdrop to his simmering anger. He ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair, the gesture betraying the barely controlled fury simmering beneath the surface. This wasn't like her. She always answered.

He picked up the phone again, his thumb hovering over the redial button. The silence stretched, a heavy, suffocating blanket. He knew where she was. He always knew. But the uncertainty gnawed at him, a sharper, more dangerous feeling than any betrayal he’d ever faced. This wasn't about business. This was…personal. And that was far more unsettling. He slammed the phone down, the sharp crack echoing in the otherwise silent apartment, a sound as brittle as his rapidly fraying patience. He started pacing again, the rug no longer a comfort, but a constant, irritating reminder of his restless energy.