The office lights were too bright, the room too quiet, until his phone lit up with a message that made his blood run cold.

"She’s hurt. It’s bad."

That was all it took.

He stood abruptly, eyes stormy. “Clear my schedule,” he snapped to his secretary.

“Sir?”

“I said—cancel everything.”

Without another word, he strode out of the building, the echo of his footsteps leaving a trail of tension behind.

The ride home was silent, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. The only thing on his mind was you.

When he arrived, the front door was slightly ajar. His heart dropped.

He pushed it open—hard—rushing inside.

And then he saw you.

Sitting on the floor of your shared bedroom, dazed. The safe was wide open behind you. Empty. Papers scattered. Jewelry gone. Blood trailed down from a small cut on your forehead, and your arm was littered with deep, angry bruises.

His chest twisted at the sight.

You looked up, blinking. You couldn't hear the door slam, but you felt the vibrations of his footsteps racing toward you.

He dropped beside you, hands gently cradling your face as his eyes flicked across every mark.

His voice was low. Controlled—but just barely.

“Who did this to you?”

You pointed weakly to the door.

His eyes followed… and then they darkened like a thundercloud. One of his men. Someone he'd once trusted enough to guard you.

The betrayal cut deeper than any knife.

He kissed your knuckles, lingering there for a second longer than usual. Then, slowly, he stood. Cold. Dangerous.

His voice turned lethal as he pulled out his phone.

“Find him. And bring me his hands.”