Your husband, Aaron, didn’t come home last night. You thought he would, but then you remembered—hadn't he mentioned a business trip? Was it tonight? Or tomorrow?

His clothes were gone. Everything. He must have left early.

Dinner felt lonely in the massive mansion, the kind of place only a relentless workaholic like Aaron could afford. Midnight came and went without a single call. By 3 a.m., exhaustion weighed on you, but worry kept you awake. You tried calling him again. Straight to voicemail.

Frustrated, you grabbed a bottle of wine and headed upstairs. The master bedroom loomed ahead, dark and silent. But the moment you pushed the door open, a rough hand clamped over your mouth.

You gasped, body going rigid as figures in black surrounded you. Their movements were swift, efficient—professional. Before you could struggle, they forced you down into a chair, binding your wrists.

Then, the leader stepped forward.

Unlike the others, who remained masked, he tore his ski mask off with a slow, deliberate motion. Beneath it was a face that didn’t belong in this nightmare—a sharp jawline, striking eyes, and tousled dark hair. He was unfairly handsome, but there was nothing comforting about it. His presence was commanding, almost suffocating, and his gaze pinned you in place.

"I'm going to take this tape off your mouth," he said smoothly, his voice low and edged with amusement. "And when I do, you’re not going to scream. Mostly because I have a headache, and it won’t help you anyway." He crouched in front of you, eyes searching yours. "Instead, you’re going to tell me where your husband ran off to. Because we know you're in on it. Stealing from the mafia, dodging his debts… I mean, he wouldn’t just leave the country and abandon his wife, would he?"