Gritting my teeth, I sink down to his level and grab his chin, forcing him to look me in the eyes. His breath reeks, and a part of me hates seeing him so fucking weak. I thought he broke this cycle. I thought he was stronger than this.
“Where’s Emery?” I ask, tone level. “Where is she, Damon?” His head sways, and I steady it with both hands. “Damon, I need you to focus, alright? When did you last see her?”
He shrugs. “Long time ago.”
Grunting, I abruptly stand up. “Damn it, Cavanaugh.” With a forceful tug, I pull the man to his feet. “Let’s go. We need to find her.”
“Maybe she doesn’t wanna be found, Quinton.” He attempts to release my unyielding grip but fails. “Let go of me, you fucker.”
I ignore him, lugging him out of the study. Damon's arm drapes over my shoulder, his unsteady steps echoing through the villa as we ascend the grand staircase. I tighten my griparound Damon. He can hardly walk. Hardly fucking talk. This is mad. It’s been years since I’ve seen him like this. Guilt grips at me, and I can’t seem to shake it off.
When we finally reach the landing, I expel a heavy sigh and guide Damon to Emery's room. The door swings open, and I blink. The room is a mess, drawers yanked open, clothes scattered across the floor. As if someone was in a frantic rush to leave.
A knowing shiver zaps down my spine. Shedidsay she wanted to leave. But this abruptly? With no goodbye? No final words? Nothing?
Something is very wrong. Very fucking wrong.
“This isn’t right,” I murmur. “She wouldn’t just leave. She wouldn’t…”
Damon tumbles forward and suggests, "If you’re so worried, Quinton, then just call her. She’ll tell you she’s just fine. That she’s leftmeandyouand she’stotallyfine.”
I glare at him, but my worry overpowers the frustration I feel toward him. "She doesn't have her phone with her, Damon. She left it in New York because she was worriedyoumight track her."
Damon winces and mumbles out an half-assed apology, his words almost incoherent. Thankfully, I speak fluent Drunk Damon.
“The valet,” I say, nodding with unwarranted hope. “Let’s check if the valet saw her leave. She would’ve taken a car to the airport.”
“You’re wasting your time, Q,” Damon slurs, swaying. “You might as well be chasing the wind, you know?”
“Helpful, Cavanaugh. Very helpful.” I pinch the bridge of my nose before forcing Damon to stand upright. “Let’s go.”
With a grunt, I loop my arm around his waist and drag him to the resort’s valet area.
“Enough! Let go of me!” Damon detangles himself from my hold as we reach the valet. “I’m fine! Jesus!”
My jaw ticks at Damon’s childish behavior as I approach the attendant and address him in French. "Excuse me, did you happen to see a woman leaving the resort earlier tonight? She’s a brunette with green eyes. Around five foot eight. She was wearing a white dress."
The attendant takes a moment to think, his brow furrowing. Then he nods slowly and says, “Yeah, I saw a brunette woman leaving earlier tonight. Not sure her about height and she wasn’t wearing a white dress, but she had a big suitcase with her. Left in an SUV. Maybe two hours ago? Looked like she was heading to the airport, I think?”
The relief I feel is only momentary. What car did she take? How did she get the keys? Did Sophie help her? My brain pulses with questions.
“She really left?” Damon asks, shoulders slumped and weak. “Oh…”
She can’t leave. Not like this. Not when I have so much left to say to her. Why didn’t she wait? She went alone? In the middle of the night? Without saying goodbye? Without an explanation?
It doesn’t add up. This isn’t like Emery. She wouldn’t do this.
I thank the valet attendant, and drag Damon back into the villa.
“We need to check flights,” I say. “We could still catch her.”
“And then what?” Damon slurs as we reach my suite. “Force her to stay? Force her to listen to us? That doesn’t work, Quinton. You know it doesn’t.” He swallows. “You said so yourself, she doesn’t belong in a cage. If she wants to fly, we should let her. Let her be free.”
I shake my head, my temples pulsing. "I don’t know what happened, Cavanaugh, but we need to find her. I’m telling you, something is wrong. Can’t you feel it?”
Damon sinks down on the edge of my bed, his face buried in his hands. “I don’t feel anything other than pain, Q. Everything hurts. That’s all I feel.”
Letting out a labored breath, I pull my phone out of my breast pocket and search for flights departing from Geneva. It would take her two hours to drive there. If we left on the jet now, we could arrive at the same time in New York.
