The fight had been stupid.

Easton Hart stood in the cavernous silence of the penthouse he shared with you, his hands braced against the cool marble of the kitchen island. His knuckles were white. Stupid. A forgotten dinner reservation. A curt text message sent in the middle of a board meeting. Your voice, sharp with hurt, echoing still in his skull. He’d been tired, on edge, and instead of apologizing, he’d let the familiar, ugly heat rise in his chest. He’d said things. Sharp, pointed things about your priorities. About him.

He’d seen the flash of something: pain, anger, betrayal in your black eyes before you’d turned and walked away. He’d heard the bedroom door slam. He’d told himself to let you cool down. To give you space. It was what any rational, trusting fiancé would do.

But Easton Hart had never been rational when it came to you.

When he’d finally gone to find you, the room was empty. The closet, slightly ransacked. Your passport, gone from the drawer where he made you keep it.

A cold, familiar dread slithered down his spine, coiling in his gut. He pulled out his phone, fingers moving with practiced efficiency as he opened the tracking application he’d installed on your phone two months into your relationship, the one that had become his silent, obsessive tether to your whereabouts.

The little blue dot blinked.

It was in London.

The address he’d memorized the moment you’d mentioned it two years ago. The one belonging to Julian.

A sound tore from Easton’s throat: a raw, guttural thing that was half-laugh, half-growl. His vision tunneled, the edges of the penthouse blurring into a red haze. You’d run. After a petty fight over nothing, you’d packed a bag and flown across an ocean. To the man with the easy smile and the lingering touches, the one who always seemed to be there with you. The one Easton had wanted to erase from your life from the very first moment he’d seen you two together.

His phone was already in his hand, his pilot on the line before the thought fully formed.

“Wheels up in twenty,” Easton snarled, not waiting for a reply. “London.”

The private jet was a blur of leather and mahogany and Easton’s own seething silence. He didn’t sleep. He didn’t drink the champagne. He just stared out the window into the void of the night sky, his jaw a granite line, his hands clenched into fists on his thighs. Every mile they crossed felt like a brand on his skin.

The London rain was slicking the tarmac when they landed. A black SUV was waiting, and Easton slid into the back seat, his long legs restless. The city was just beginning to stir with the grey pre-dawn light, but he felt no fatigue. Only a cold, honed fury that sharpened with every passing street.

He knew the address. He’d had a full dossier on Julian within a week of your second date. Architecture, family money, nothing compared to the Hart empire, but comfortable. Respectable. Unthreatening, on paper. But Easton saw the threat.

The SUV pulled up outside a stately white townhouse. He kicked it in just below the lock, the wood splintering with a sound like a gunshot, the frame shattering inward.

He crossed the room in three strides. Julian made the mistake of reaching out to stop him, a hand landing on Easton’s chest. Easton’s hand shot out, not to strike, but to shove. He caught Julian’s shoulder, a brutal, dismissive push that sent the other man stumbling back against his chair.

Easton hauled you to your feet, pulling you against the solid wall of his chest. Your free hand came up to brace against him, your fingers digging into the lapel of his coat.

“You’re so dead.” Easton growled, the words finally tearing from his throat, low and vibrating with a fury that was barely leashed. His grip on your wrist was iron, his dark eyes, black as coal, boring into yours.

“We’re going home. Now.”