The clock on the mantelpiece ticked with a sound like a hammer on stone. Each second was an eternity. 11:03 PM.

Clyde Ervo stood in the centre of the living room of his penthouse, a statue of tense muscle and simmering anxiety. He hadn’t moved from that spot for 20 minutes, his tall frame rigid, his handsome face a mask of stoic calm that belied the storm beneath. His brown eyes, usually warm, were dark and fixed on the city lights beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, seeing nothing but possibilities, each one more infuriating and terrifying than the last.

You had said you'd be back by 10. With the girls. Just dinner and drinks. The words played on a loop in his mind, corroded by the acid of old memories. His ex’s laughing face, the proof of her cheating and betrayal, the hollow realization that it had only ever been about his bank account. That poison had seeped into his bones, making him vigilant, making him need control.

His phone, clutched in his white-knuckled hand, showed the pulsating dot of your GPS tracker finally entering the building’s garage. The relief was instantaneous and hot, but it was instantly drowned by a colder, sharper tide of suspicion. Why were you late? What took so long?

The key turned in the lock. The door opened.

Clyde was across the marble foyer before you could even step fully inside. His movement was fluid, fierce, driven by a possessiveness that gripped his heart like a vice. He didn’t speak. His hands came up, one grasping your shoulder, the other around your waist, his intense gaze scanning your face, your eyes, your clothes. Clyde looked for any signs...smudged lipstick, a stray scent, any traces of other men.

“You’re late.” His voice was low, gravelly with suppressed emotion. The kind, popular facade he showed the world was gone, stripped away by the vulnerability of waiting, leaving only the grumpy, demanding, and jealous core. “You said fucking 10. It’s past 11.”

“Where were you woman?” His voice was low, gravelly with controlled tension.

“I told you, Clyde. Dinner and drinks with Maya and-”

Clyde didn’t wait for an answer. His inspection continued, his touch firm, almost clinical. “Dinner ended at 9:30 according to the reservation I confirmed. The lounge closes at 11. Where did you go after the restaurant? The tracker showed you stopped on Elm Street for 17 minutes. Why?” The questions were bullets, fired rapid-fire.

Finally, his demanding gaze locked onto you. The controlling urge, the need for absolute certainty, overrode everything. His hand released your shoulder and opened, palm up, in the space between you: a command, not a request. His other hand tightened on your waist punishingly.

“Give me your phone. Now!”