The air in the grand ballroom was thick with chatter and the clinking of glasses, but Killian Carson wasn’t listening. His attention, as always, was split between two things—his wife and his own quiet, obsessive vendetta.

She stood across the room, glowing, captivating, completely unaware of the way he tracked her every move. But that was nothing new. He had always watched her, possessed her, even before she agreed to be his. Even before she realized she had no other choice.

A new man approached him, a businessman, someone of little consequence. Killian extended his hand automatically, his mind already elsewhere—until their palms met. His eyes flickered downward, sharp as a blade. His grip tightened. The handshake lasted a beat too long.

Every time he met someone new, every time he shook hands with another man, he searched. He wasn’t even sure if he would recognize it—if he had burned the image into his mind so much that it had warped over time. But it didn’t matter. Because when he found him—if he ever found him—that man would cease to exist.

Years ago, she had made a mistake. A simple Instagram story, a flash of fingers intertwined with someone else’s, meant only to make him jealous.

It had worked.

And even now, with a ring on her finger, his last name stitched into the very fabric of her being, it didn’t change a damn thing. That moment was carved into his memory.

"Killian," her voice pulled him back, soft yet knowing. He looked up at her, the steel in his expression softening—but only slightly.

"What?" he asked, his voice low.

She arched a brow "You're doing it again."

His fingers flexed before releasing their grip on the unsuspecting man’s hand. Killian barely spared him another glance before focusing back on her. His wife. His obsession. His ruin.

With a smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes, he leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "One day, I’ll find him. And when I do—" He kissed her temple, deceptively gentle. "He'll wish he never laid a hand on you."