Clear enough to see the masked man grab her arm.
My entire body went rigid.
He shoved her against the wall, hard enough that her head snapped back. Fuck, I could even hear the impact even through the recording. She tried to pull away, and he grabbed her harder, fingers digging into her arm with enough force that I knew there would be bruises.
Then he pulled a gun.
Pressed it against her ribs while leaning in close, mouth moving in words I couldn’t hear. Barbara’s face was turned slightly away from the camera, but I could see the terror from the way her whole body had gone still.
I shot up from my seat, the chair clattering backward. My hands clenched the armrest hard enough that the leather creaked, my knuckles going white. The vodka glass sat forgotten on the desk as I watched the footage loop back to the beginning.
Watched him grab her again. Shove her again. Point the gun again.
Every muscle in my body screamed to move. To get in my car. To drive back to that mansion and demand she tell me whothe fuck that was. To find the bastard myself and return every ounce of violence he’d inflicted on her with interest.
But I forced myself to stay still. Forced myself to breathe. To think.
No boyfriend pointed a gun at his girlfriend like that. No boyfriend manhandled someone they supposedly cared about with that level of casual violence. That wasn’t a relationship. That was something much worse.
That was control.
“Fuck.” The word came out strangled.
I watched it again. And again. Each time, rage built higher in my chest, pressing against my ribs like it was trying to break free. Each time, I saw new details. The way she didn’t fight back. The way she seemed to know exactly what was coming. The practiced nature of her fear.
This wasn’t the first time. This was a routine. A pattern.
How long had this been happening?
My phone buzzed. Drew’s name flashed across the screen, but I ignored it. Couldn’t talk to anyone right now. Couldn’t pretend everything was fine when I’d just watched—
I slammed my fist on the desk, making the monitors jump.
She’d lied to me. Stood in that surveillance room while I exported this footage, probably knowing exactly what I’d find. Probably terrified I’d discover her secret. And instead of trusting me, instead of asking for help, she’d just let me walk away.
Let me think she was just another rich girl with a bad boyfriend.
But this wasn’t a bad boyfriend. This was something else entirely. Something darker. And the “Bass” on her phone—whoever the fuck he was—wasn’t calling to sweet-talk her or plan their next date.
He was calling to terrorize her.
I opened a new window, fingers flying across the keyboard. If I could get a better angle, clean up the image, maybe I could identify him. See a tattoo, a scar, something that would give me a name. Because once I had a name, I could find him.
And once I found him—
My hands stilled on the keyboard.
Vladimir’s voice echoed in my head,“Don’t kill anyone.”
But watching that footage, watching that masked bastard put his hands on Barbara, point a gun at her like she was nothing, every cell in my body screamed to break that promise.
You shouldn’t care about a cheater like her,the rational part of my brain insisted.She lied. She’s hiding things. She’s not your responsibility.
But my body didn’t care about any of that.
My body only cared about the fear in her eyes. The bruises that were probably hidden under her sleeves. The way she’d kissed me like I was oxygen and she was drowning.
“No boyfriend points a gun like that,” I muttered to the empty room, taking another pull of vodka straight from the bottle. “Unless he’s something much worse.”
