“I’m not divorcing her!”
“Keep your voices down,” Dominick says, strolling into the room. “I have three kids sleeping, and if you wake them up, you’ll be responsible for putting them back to bed.”
He hands me his phone, and I click play, watching as Theodore DeSantis walks into Brielle’s studio and proceeds to destroy it.
“He’s a fucking dead man.” I hand the phone back to Dominick. “Now, tell me where my wife is.”
Matteo snorts out a laugh. “Tell us why you forced her to marry you, only to draw up divorce papers a couple months later.”
“I’ll tellheronce I find her.”
I need to have this conversation with Brielle. She’s the priority. And I’m not going to gossip about our relationship with her brothers like we’re a bunch of teenage girls.
“That’s not happening,” Dominick says.
“It’s a small town. She has to be here somewhere, and I won’t stop until I find her.”
I stalk toward the front door and open it.
“And Theo’s mine!” I yell back, closing it behind me.
She’s notin Harbor Point.
I’ve searched everywhere, turned over every goddamn stone. But she’s not here.
It’s been a week, and I haven’t been able to locate Theo or Brielle. If I didn’t know how much she couldn’t stand the man, I’d wonder if they were together. But there’s no way she’d leave town with the asshole who vandalized her studio.
“Good morning, sir. I’m Sasha. I was working with your wife on the studio. I appreciate you reaching out.”
This morning, I’m meeting with the Pilates studio expert Brielle was working with. Rather than filing an insurance claim, which would’ve taken months, I hired a crew to go in and clean up the studio. I refuse to believe Brielle is gone forever. And once she comes back, she’ll want to open the studio, and it will be done the way she dreamed.
I spend the next thirty minutes going over everything Sasha says Brielle wanted while my assistant takes notes. And then I meet with the contractor to ensure he can make it all happen.
“I’d like it done as soon as possible.”
“We have one job ahead?—”
“I’ll pay you double to make thisproject priority.”
The man’s eyes shine with dollar signs. “Will do.”
I shake his hand and walk him out. “I look forward to doing business with you.”
Four weeks.
It’s been four damn weeks since my wife disappeared, and I’m no closer to her or the asshole who fucked up her studio.
The contractor is on schedule, and the studio is due to be completed in the next week. But it doesn’t matter when my wife isn’t here to run it.
“We’ll let you know when the last phase is complete so you can come in and do a walk-through,” the contractor says.
“I appreciate it.”
I leave them to continue working and step onto the sidewalk to text my private investigator to see if he has any updates when I spot none other than Theodore DeSantis walking out of the restaurant across the street.
“Jack, I’ll meet you back at the office,” I tell my assistant, pocketing my phone.
Theo gets into his car, and I follow him into the parking garage near where he works. He drives up three floors and then parks.
