Page 17 of Beautiful Villain
I turned and walked back into chaos.
“Find her,” I said to no one in particular.“Lock the city down until you fucking find my wife!”I roared.
My men didn’t hesitate as orders started flying every which way.
Mikayla Gregory.
She’d run.She’d humiliated me.That was unforgivable.
By the time I left the church, the city was already tightening with the sound of sirens in the distance.My men were fanning out, and we had people everywhere looking out for her.
She could hide for a night.Maybe two.But she was out there somewhere.Barefoot, because we retrieved her heels from the lawn beyond the church.Perhaps she was angling for a Cinderella type story.
Ah, my dear Mikayla.Are you a romantic at heart, baby?
I smiled to myself as I got into the car.
They didn’t find her.
That was the first report.Then the second.Then the third.
There was nothing on street cameras.No ID hits.No hospitals.No traffic stops.There wasn’t a single trace of her anywhere.
I sat in the back of the car and listened as my men failed me in increasingly creative ways.
“She could be hiding with someone.”
“She might’ve left the city.”
“She could’ve hurt herself.”
I told the last one to shut up.
Mikayla wasn’t fragile.She was stubborn.That had been obvious from the beginning.It was one of the reasons I wanted her.Women like her didn’t break easily.They just made people work harder.And I was more than ready for the challenge.
I pressed my fingers into my knee until the ache grounded me.
“Check churches,” I said.“Shelters.Hotels.Hospitals.”
“We already?—”
“Do it again.”
The car slowed at an intersection.I leaned forward.
“And find out who helped her.”
Because someone always helped.Women like Mikayla didn’t vanish on their own.Someone opened a door.Someone gave her a ride.Someone thought they were being clever.That person was dead.They just didn’t know it yet.
My phone buzzed.Petro’s name appeared on the screen.
“She’s not anywhere she should be,” he said carefully.“Which means she’s somewhere she shouldn’t.”
That thought tightened my chest.
I pictured her running.Barefoot.Dress torn.Eyes sharp with defiance.I’d seen it before, early on, when she still thought resistance mattered.I’d liked that too.
The first time I saw her, she’d been standing beside her stepfather at a dinner she didn’t want to attend.He was loud.She wasn’t.She watched everything.Everyone.When our eyes met, she didn’t look away fast enough.
