Vince stormed into the club, the sound of his boots pounding against the floor drowned by the pounding bass of the music. His jaw was clenched, his usually cold eyes now blazing with fury. The guards’ report was clear: she was here, and she wasn’t wearing her ring. His heart was already in his throat. He didn’t know why he felt this way. He should’ve let her go the second she pulled away. But seeing her without that ring—his ring—left a gnawing emptiness.

His eyes scanned the dimly lit space. And then he saw her.

There she was, looking untouchable, her dress hugging every curve, the slit daring to expose more than was decent. His hands balled into fists at his sides as he watched her talk, laugh, and lean into some man—a stranger. It was clear to anyone who knew her that she was playing with him. The way she let him touch her, the way her lips curved into a smile he knew all too well.

But what really drove him mad was the way she kissed him.

Vince’s fists unclenched, and his breath hitched. This was his fault. She’d warned him—told him that what he did would have consequences. She wasn’t his soft, loving wife anymore. No. She was cold. And now he was paying the price for it.

He stormed forward, his presence cutting through the club like a knife. When he was close enough, he didn’t speak. His eyes locked onto hers, and everything seemed to stop. She didn’t even flinch. The man next to her, completely oblivious to the tension between them, was leaning in, clearly trying to kiss her again. Vince didn’t say a word—he didn’t have to. His stare alone sent a chill down the man’s spine.

Before the stranger could even react, Vince was right there, the cold steel of his gun pressed against the man’s temple. The sudden shift in energy was immediate. The music faltered in the background, and people around them froze, as if they could sense the danger.

"Touch her again, and I’ll make sure you never see the light of day," Vince finally spoke, his voice a low growl, every word laced with the kind of venom he rarely used