Page 81 of Vance

Connor nods.

“She didn’t tell me where she was going.”

The relief that floods through me is immediate and overwhelming, but it’s instantly eclipsed by a rage so pure—so white-hot—that I can barely see. I’m no closer to finding her than I was the night she left. I tighten my grip on his jaw, my fingers digging into his skin hard enough to bruise. “If you’re lying⁠—”

“I’m not,” he swears, his voice strained but steady. He doesn’t struggle, just holds my gaze with that infuriating steadiness. “She loves you, you bastard. God help her, she fucking loves you. Even after everything, even after whatever you did to make her run… For some fucking reason, she’s still in love with you.”

I stare at him.

She loves me.

After releasing him, I climb to my feet. The drive home is a blur of headlights, empty intersections, and thoughts I can’t silence. For nearly three weeks, I’ve been searching for my wife, and I’m no closer to finding her than I was the night she disappeared. I’m back where I started.

I pull into the garage beneath my building and park in my usual space. With the engine cut off, I sit in silence, both hands resting on the steering wheel, before finally getting out. The elevator ride to my penthouse feels longer than usual. When the doors finally slide open, I step into the foyer, and my breath catches.

Her suitcase.

My eyes lift slowly toward the apartment as my pulse flutters.

“Sophia...”

The marble of the kitchen island is cold against my palms, a stark contrast to the frantic heat pulsing in my veins. I stare at my phone, my thumb hovering over Kiki’s contact photo, her smiling face a painful reminder of the life I’ve jeopardized walking away from Vance. I finally hit dial, needing to talk to her again. It rings twice before she picks up.

“Soph? Are you okay? Did you do it?” Her voice is a frantic whisper. I can picture her, huddled in her dorm room, studying for her exam halted for my disaster of a life.

“I’m here,” I whisper so softly it’s barely audible. I close my eyes, the weight of my decision pressing on me. “I’m at the penthouse.”

Silence stretches between us, thick with my unspoken fears. “And?” she finally prompts.

“Vance isn’t here. And… I don’t know whether I can do this,” I confess, the words tumbling out in a rush. “Maybe this is a mistake. Maybe I should just let it go, move to some nowhere town, and raise this baby alone.”

“Soph, you are the strongest person I know,” Kiki insists, her tone firm with conviction. “You raised me. I know you’ll do anything to secure your child’s future. This isn’t giving up. This isn’t being weak. This is being strategic. You can do this.”

“I love you,” I exhale, a lump forming in my throat. She’s my anchor, the only person in the world who truly understands the stakes. Well, minus the part where I married him for her… I’ll take that secret to the grave.

“I love you more,” she says softly.

I end the call, place the phone face down on the counter, and wait. The silence in the apartment is a living thing, broken only by the occasional sounds of the city beyond the terrace and the thunderous beating of my heart. I sit on the high-backed stool, my hands clasped in my lap, with my body coiling so tightly that it feels like it could snap me in two. Every minute stretches into an eternity. I rehearse my lines, my demands, my threats, building the wall around my heart, brick by painful brick.

A soft, distant ding from the hallway alerts me to the elevator’s arrival. My breath hitches, and every muscle goes rigid as the soft hiss of the doors sliding open echoes in the silence. They’re followed by measured footsteps on the marble floor, growing louder and closer, until Vance is in the archway leading into the kitchen.

He looks… wrecked. The Vance I left was always composed and immaculate. This man has dark circles etched beneath both eyes, his shirt is wrinkled, and a faint purple bruise is forming along his cheekbone. For a fleeting, illogical second, a flicker of concern cuts through my anger.

“Sophia...” My name is a ragged sigh, his piercing blue eyes scanning me from head to toe, as if he can’t quite believe I’m real. He takes a step forward, his hand outstretched. “Sweetheart...”

“Don’t.” The one word is sharp, a slap in the quiet room. I hold up my hand, creating a barrier between us. He freezes, his open palm hovering in the air before it slowly drops to his side. The relief on his face crumbles, replaced by a raw, wounded look that I refuse to let affect me.

“I’m here because I don’t have anywhere else to go,” I state, my voice cold and steady, a complete contrast to the flurry of emotions going on inside me. “You made sure of that.” My hand slides unconsciously to my belly, a protective gesture over the life growing within me. “I’ll never forgive you.”

He opens his mouth to speak—to deny and lie—but I cut him off.

“But I’m pregnant,” I confess.

The corners of his lips curl. On anyone else, it could be construed as happiness, but I know Vance better than that. I know what this means to him. An heir is the only other thing he truly needs from me to meet his father’s demands. The look is far less triumphant than I expect. Instead, something almost like pain passes through his eyes before his expression hardens again.

“And I need you to take care of us. I’ll be your wife. I’ll give you the heir you need. But that is all you’ll ever get from me.”

His throat works on a swallow.