California still feels foreign.
Not because it’s unfamiliar. But because she’s here. And that changes everything.
I should’ve known better. Should never have married her.
Not because she’s weak—Bella Marquez is anything but. But because she thinks love is safety. That marrying me would come with the illusion of a white picket fence and Sunday grocery runs.
She didn’t marry a fucking office worker.
She married a man who knows how long it takes to dissolve a body and which federal judge can make a charge disappear before it ever hits a docket.
And the world? The world is going to punish her for it.
We’re almost home when Timur turns to me from the front seat of the SUV. His voice low. “We traced the burner.”
I don’t ask. He keeps talking.
“Pinged off a relay tower near Salinas. Run-down roadside motel off Route 183. Seventy bucks a night, cash only. Manager’s half-blind, no cameras. Room 112’s been occupied since yesterday—checked in under a fake name.”
Of course it was.
“Team’s already on-site,” Timur adds. “Perimeter’s quiet. Lights still on inside. No sign of movement.”
I nod once. It’s enough.
The estate gates open as we pull up, floodlights casting shadows that stretch like fingers across the gravel. I step out before the engine cuts, jaw tight, mind louder than the silence around me.
Someone reached for her. Someone fucking dared.
The Cullinan eases forward. The gates open before we reach them—camera scans already confirmed our arrival. The estate is quiet. Still. Like it’s holding its breath.
I don’t go through the main entrance. I head for the private garage.
Security knows the drill. No one speaks. No one lingers. The private lift waits at the far end—secure access only. I step inside, swipe my ID, thumbprint scan follows. No one rides with me.
I take the private lift upstairs. I walk the corridor to her door. I stand there—silent, fists in my pockets like some fucking adolescent—listening.
She’s asleep.
I should go in. Wake her. Ask her why the fuck she didn’t tell me about the call. Press her against the wall and remind her what it means to wear my ring.
But I don’t.
Because if I go in there, I won’t want to leave. And I’ve already made too many mistakes when it comes to her.
I force myself to keep walking.
My room is three doors down. The shower runs hot, steam swallowing everything. The water burns, and I let it. I scrub away the flight, the boardroom, the stale stench of New York pretenders. But not her. I can’t wash her off. Not from under my skin. Not from my fucking head.
I look in the mirror and see a man who shouldn’t be feeling this much.
She’s making me soft.
Or worse—she’s making mefeel.
Blyad.
I throw on black—no tie, no watch. Just muscle memory and control. But my body reminds me it’s been running on adrenaline and stubbornness. And now, I’m starving.
