Jason stood, fists tight. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll talk some sense into her.”
Izzy, with a half-smile, raised her glass. “Cheers. Anything you say, Jason.”
He left, the door nearly crashing into the post outside.
Izzy held herself steady until he disappeared down the block. She set the glass down carefully. She remembered the burnerphone tucked into a shoe in her suitcase, and she made herself a vow: Jason West could bring his war, but she would not let him win.
She rubbed the skin at the base of her thumb, then breathed once—hard—and folded it into something like resolve.
Jason West
Later That Day—Denver.
Jason stormed into the model luxury home that doubled as his office—the crown jewel of West Custom Homes, perched high above Denver. Floor-to-ceiling glass gave him a sweeping view of the Rockies, jagged and timeless, but all that open sky was lost on him today.
The place was designed to impress—stone façade outside, marble and glass inside, leather furniture staged just so. Every inch said wealth and control, the empire he’d built with his own hands. Usually, he thrived on that perfection. Today, it only grated.
He blew past the receptionist, her “Good afternoon, Mr. West” swallowed by the hard echo of his shoes. Upstairs, he shoved open the door to his private office—a cavern of glass, walnut, and curated power. The bourbon cart gleamed in the corner; sunlight knifed across his desk.
His secretary shifted papers outside the door. For half a second, he thought about calling her in—having her pull Caitlin’s financials, track every charge, every move. But he stopped cold. He didn’t want her, or anyone else, to see the crack in his story. No one needed to know his wife had bolted. This was his to handle.
He dropped into his leather chair, yanked open his laptop, and pulled up the bank accounts. First the household, then Caitlin’s personal. He scanned the numbers. Nothing. Balancesuntouched. Transactions the same—groceries, utilities, the ordinary rhythm of a life that should have been here. No airline ticket. No hotel. No car rental. Her account sat there flat and unmoving, like she’d evaporated.
He leaned back, incredulous, heat crawling up his neck. He’d built his life around control—and somehow she’d slipped right through it.
He thought back to the night after the letter, storming into the master closet and tearing it apart. Clothes hanging in their perfect rows. Jewelry box untouched. Her wedding rings sitting out like a slap across his face. It was as if she had stepped out the door and vanished.
Vanished.
His lip curled. Impossible. Nobody pulled something like this off alone. Not under his roof. Not under his watch. Someone had helped her. Someone had funded this little fantasy escape.
Jason’s fist slammed the desk, rattling the glass of bourbon he hadn’t touched. He rolled his wedding band between thumb and forefinger—a small, compulsive anchor against the chaos.
The elevator chimed. The hum of the West Custom team drifted out—voices buzzing about a showcase in Boulder. Almost finished. Almost perfect.
Mike Meachum, principal. Mark Wright, superintendent. Teena Talley, architect. Brandi Mohan, creative director.
Mike, longtime business partner and occasional voice of reason, appeared in the doorway, a question in his eyes. “Whoa. You look beyond pissed. Problem at a job site?”
“No,” Jason snapped. “It’s a problem with Caitlin.”
Mike’s expression shifted instantly. “What kind of problem?”
“She left me.”
Mike blinked, his composure cracking. “Left you? Jason, what does that mean—left you?”
“She walked out. I have no idea where she’s gone.”
“Jesus Christ.” Mike’s voice dropped, eyes darting around to make sure no one else was listening. “Did she say why?”
“She caught me with Marta. And found out about the others, I suppose. I was surprised she didn’t already know.”
Mike sighed, shaking his head. “So now you need help finding her.”
“That’s right.”
“Don’t you have a tracker on her car?”
