Kyle, Bash and Isabella follow me out of my office and into the elevator.
I hit the button for level fifty-seven. Isabella’s eyes follow the numbers as they count down. She flexes her fingers, and fine lines appear at the corners of her mouth. Sure, the conversation was cut short even though she was on her feet and ready to walkout before the alarm went off, but this feels like more than regret that she didn’t get what she wanted.
Terry’s team is already standing outside the door to the executive suite when we arrive. I don’t see any smoke. Yet.
Terry bangs on the door with his fist. “Security. Open up.”
A voice reaches us from inside the room. “Everything is under control. My wife lit a candle in the bathroom is all.”
Isabella’s lips part, but she doesn’t make a sound.
“Open the door please, sir.” I take over. “This is Mr. Murray.”
Isabella flinches. She knows who is inside even if this wasn’t part of the plan, and mentioning my name was the deal-breaker.
I address Terry. “Break down the door.”
He doesn’t question it. A security guard hits the door side-on, throwing all his weight into his upper body. The door rattles but doesn’t give. He tries a second time, and it bounces on the hinges.
Before he can give it a third and final shot, the door opens, and a man’s face appears. I recognize it, but it takes several beats for me to process what I’m seeing.
It’s George Quinn, only there isn’t a mark on his face.
His carefully plastered-on smile fades when he spots Isabella. He doesn’t even try to recover it. “Izzy?”
“Stand aside, sir.” Terry commands.
I can smell smoke. It’s faint, but it’s stronger inside the executive suite.
George steps away from the door, dull eyes still glued to his fiancée. We all file into the room. Remy isn’t there. I wasn’t expecting to see her, she could be anywhere within a hundred-mile radius of the Titan by now, but Isabella’s uneasiness had been contagious.
“Where is Remy?” Bash’s fist is wrapped around George’s throat while the bodyguards swarm through the suite like ants on a jelly sandwich, and the alarm reverberates inside my head.
“Was she here?” Isabella’s eyes are large with tears; her face is pale, but she manages to be heard above the alarm. “You brought her to our hotel suite?” She’s yelling now.
George furrows his brow. Moments pass, the alarm grinding on every nerve in my body until suddenly we’re plunged into silence that doesn’t feel real.
“What are you talking about? What’s going on?” George moves his jaw from side to side as if trying to clear the ringing in his ears.
I’m as confused as he is, until Isabella starts sobbing, her back hunched, and shoulders shaking with the intensity of her emotions. The woman can act. When this is over, I might introduce her to a Hollywood movie producer I’m acquainted with because her talents are wasted here. She doesn’t love her fiancé; she already made that perfectly clear. She’s sowing the seeds of an affair, in front of witnesses, so that she can go public with it if we don’t agree to an alliance with her.
This is Plan B.
A roar builds somewhere deep inside my chest. Isabella isn’t the only one here who can act, and if I can give her a handwith taking down this waste of fucking space, I’ll gladly help. “I fucking knew it. You’ve been sniffing around Remy for months.”
I punch my left palm with my right fist.
Only one thing would give me greater pleasure than breaking his jaw right now. But Remy isn’t here, so I’ll settle for watching him squirm.
Then an object on the coffee table catches my eye. I break my stride. Gravitate towards it, stomach muscles clenching as uneasiness settles inside my gut. I pick it up, and stare at a rubbery, lifelike mask complete with black eye and busted lip.
Isabells shrieks with horror. “What is that?” She points to the mask in my hand with her index finger.
Bash still has one fist wrapped around George’s throat, and he gasps like a fish out of water, bulging eyes directed at his bride-to-be. “Stop…” he manages. “Tell… them… truth.”
I join my brother. Sure, we can be intimidating when we’re together. And yep, we use that to our advantage when required. But I’ve never seen anyone cower the way George Quinn does when I slap the mask over his face and hold it there.
“Where is Remy?”
