Page 80 of Vance

The door swings open, and I’m face to face with a man I’ve seen before. It takes me a second to connect the handsome, concerned face with the memory of the crowded gala, with Sophia in a silky black gown and another man’s hands on her as they danced.

“You...” I whisper, a hiss of pure, unadulterated jealousy. It’s the same feeling I had that night. Only this is worse. This time it’s fueled by three weeks of silence and uncertainty, and I see red. “Where the fuck is my wife?”

Connor doesn’t flinch. Instead, he remains planted in the doorway, one hand on the frame, his shoulders squaring, his jaw tightening. There’s no fear in his expression. No apology, either. Just a steady, guarded look that does nothing to ease the rage boiling through me. “She’s not here.”

I stare at him, searching his face for the lie. “Bullshit.”

“I said, she’s not here,” he grits, his jaw flexing.

“Don’t fucking lie to me.” Barreling past him before he can respond, I only make it a few steps into the foyer before his hand clamps around my arm, stopping me short. I rip my arm free and shove him hard in the chest. Connor stumbles backward, catching himself against the wall as I surge farther inside.

The home is warm, filled with the scent of garlic and wine, with evidence of Sophia scattered throughout. The small dining room table is set for two. There is a wine glass on the kitchen counter and a glass of water beside it. A book about pregnancy lies open on the coffee table. The domesticity of it, knowing she’s been living here, with him, is like a punch to the gut. “Sophia!” I shout, my voice thundering through the house. “Sophia, I know you’re here!”

“Get out,” Connor snarls, blocking my path before shoving me toward the door.

“Where is she?” I demand, my hands clenching into fists at my sides. “What did you do to her?”

“I didn’t do anything to her,” he retorts. “I took care of her when you broke her. She wouldn’t let me—” He stops, his expression shifting, guilt flickering in his features.

“Wouldn’t let you what?”

Instead of answering, his gaze shifts away from mine, his jaw tightening as if he’s weighing whether whatever he was about to say is worth the consequences. Assuming the worst of his confession, a sickening thought takes shape in my mind, and fire surges through my veins.

Something happened between them.

I fist the front of his shirt and slam him against the wall. “Did you touch her?”

“Fuck you.”

“Did. You. Touch. My. Fucking. Wife?”

His eyes lock onto mine. “She kissed me,” he chokes, and the words are like knives between my ribs. His voice softens, and he continues reluctantly. “Or I kissed her. It doesn’t matter.”

Using my leverage, I slam him against the wall again. “It. Fucking. Matters.”

“I kissed her.”

The words are a spark to gasoline, and I see fucking red. My fist drives into his gut, and the air explodes from his lungs with a strangled grunt, his body folding around the blow. He stumbles forward, one hand clutching his stomach, but he doesn’t go down. I swing again. My fist connects with his jaw, the impact sending a sharp shockwave up my arm.

Connor retaliates, his own fist catching the side of my cheek as he forces himself upright. The hit snaps my head sideways. It’s a clumsy, messy fight fueled by pure emotion. We’re a tangle of limbs and fury, crashing into the wall as we grapple for leverage. Connor shoves me backward, and I drive forward again, my fist catching his ribs.

Years of disciplined training take over, I get the upper hand quickly, muscle memory overriding the fury long enough for instinct to do what it was taught to do. I hook an arm around his neck and use the momentum against him, driving him to the floor. Landing on top of him, I pin him down with my forearm pressed firmly to his throat. I lean down until my face is inches from his and snarl, “Where is she?”

Connor struggles beneath me for a moment, his hands gripping at my arm as he tries futilely to shove me off. His eyes remain defiant, but he eventually stills. “She’s gone,” he chokes out beneath the pressure of my forearm. “She left a few hours ago.”

It takes a moment for his words to register, my pressure against his neck increasing instinctively when they do. “Where is she?” I demand. “Tell me where she went.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

I ease the pressure on his throat and settle astride his waist, glaring down at him as I try to make sense of what he’s telling me. His chest rising and falling beneath me, Connor wipes a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand as he stares up at me with a mixture of hatred, jealousy, and pity.

I fucking hate that look.

“I don’t know,” he repeats, hoarsely. “She wouldn’t tell me. She said she couldn’t stay here anymore, packed her bags and walked out.”

My stomach drops.

“She left?” I repeat, the words barely audible.