“Go get him, Danni.” I square my shoulders and head out onto the gaming floor.
A small wristlet holding my phone and cash swings from my hand as I walk from one end of the casino to the other. Trace has been missing all night, but the cameras in the ceiling remind me that he might be watching me on his laptop.
I add a sexy sway to my hips on my way to his private elevator. When I started working here, he gave me a passcode to access the offices on the 30th floor. I’ve never tried to enter his residence alone. I assume he’s in his office, but I push the button for the penthouse on impulse.
The 31 illuminates, and my breath catches. As the elevator begins its climb to the top floor, I consider pressing 30 and stopping by his office first. But curiosity holds me immobile.
Why is his penthouse unlocked? He’s either there or the passcode he gave me unlocks it. I’ve had that code for four months.
I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you.
Excitement buzzes through my veins, eradicating any lingering nerves. I love this man and his perplexing, mysterious ways. I love him, and I can’t wait to tell him. And kiss him. And… Holy shit, I’m totally getting laid tonight.
When the elevator opens on the penthouse floor, my thighs clench, and my blood hums wildly. I step out and breeze past the kitchen, dining room, and living room, searching, craning my neck, and starting to sweat. There’s no sign of him, and the silence is unnerving.
I enter the hallway, and the end is illuminated by the light in his bedroom. Maybe he’s in the shower. Maybe he’s waiting for me in bed, naked, and fully erect.
Grinning like a fool, I quicken my gait. The click of my heels sound my approach, but that’s not the only thing I hear as I reach the open door.
Heavy breaths.
A low moan.
My heart freezes in my chest, and I stumble on the threshold.
The bed is perfectly made and vacant, but I know he’s in here, and he’s not alone.
Sharp pain ignites behind my eyes as I follow the panting sounds to the sitting area by the fireplace.
Bent over the arm of the couch is a woman with long dark hair, her face pressed against the cushion and her hips skyward, held in place by the man standing behind her.
The man I chose.
The one I love.
Agony stabs my chest, ripping the air from my lungs and shaking my knees violently. I grip the door jamb to keep myself upright, frozen in horror, nauseous beneath waves and waves of horrendous pain.
He’s arched over her, his chest covering her back and his trousers around his thighs. They’re angled toward the door, both wearing suits, with her skirt ruched to her waist. I can’t see his dick, but it’s clear he’s buried inside her. He’s not thrusting, not moving. Because he’s staring right at me.
I thought he was detached before…
It’s like I’m looking at someone else. There’s no expression on his face. Nothing. No scowl. No hint of lust. Just…emptiness.
How could he do this? Everything he said was lies. He’s just a player. A liar. And I fucking fell for it. Hard.
I cover my mouth as heaving breaths break free from my lungs.
The woman stirs, wriggling her hips against him as she lifts her head and brushes the hair from her face.
The flawless face of Marlo Vogt.
Her eyes find mine, and she gasps. Her complexion pales. She reaches back to shove at him, her other arm yanking her skirt down. Embarrassed.
Not as embarrassed as I am. My skin burns with humiliation, disgust, and anguish.
I hurt so badly blackness dots my vision and strangles my throat. My feet stumble backward, carrying me ungracefully into the hall, turning, and running toward the elevator.
I feel like my insides are tearing, separating, and bleeding out. Like I’m grieving.
Like the day that destroyed my world in the most irrevocable way.
“He’s retiring when he gets home.” I twirl around Bree in the dance studio, sliding seamlessly through the steps I’ve been practicing for the past year. It’s my coping mechanism. I might be falling apart inside, but I keep moving, keep dancing. “I just need to be patient.”
And trust him. I trust Cole more than anyone on the planet.
“I don’t understand why he couldn’t retire before he left.” Bree crosses her arms and stares at the ceiling. “It’s the silence that concerns me the most.” She sighs. “Danni, you must be asking yourself… What if he doesn’t show up for the wedding? It’s only a week away.”
I lose my footing, but she doesn’t notice. Her eyes are closed, as if that could hide the worry on her face.
“Can you at least try to move through his steps?” I grip her shoulders and wait for her gaze to find mine. “I want our first dance to be perfect.”
“I’m not the one who needs to practice. Even if he showed up today, how will he learn this routine in a week?”
He was supposed to be home a month ago. Something’s happened. I feel it like a gaping jagged hole in my gut, but I refuse to examine it. I can’t. I need to focus on the wedding. It’s the only thing keeping me from crumbling.
“Let’s run through the song again.” I walk toward the sound system.
“No.” She blocks my path and places her hands on my face. “I’ve been humoring this…this cloud of hope you’re floating on long enough. We’re at T minus six days, and your groom is nowhere to be found. You haven’t heard from him in months—”
“Four months.” I turn away and walk toward the wedding dress hanging in the corner. “Four months, ten days, twenty-two hours.”
That’s the last time I received an email from him. Over the past year, we talked on the phone five times. Short calls. The connection was horrible with a frustrating delay. But he sounded well, if not tired. We exchanged several emails in the first few months. Then they became more sporadic, with longer and longer stretches between his responses. Until nothing at all.
“He promised me he’ll back in time.” I run a hand over the white tulle skirt of the dress. “We talked about the wedding in every message. He picked the date.” My voice thins. “He said he could learn the dance in a month.” And make me orgasm in awe of his skills.
My chest squeezes painfully. Why is he a month late?
Every day away from him is an eternity in hell. But the last four months of silence, not hearing a word, not knowing if he’s okay is like a poison, dripping into my organs, spreading toxins of doubt, and making me ask all the questions Bree has finally worked up the nerve to voice.
Why didn’t he say fuck it and break the employment contract?
Why did he leave me?
Why hasn’t he emailed me?
What if he doesn’t show up for the wedding?
What if he never comes back?
When he stopped emailing, I called the government building downtown. No one would connect me with his department. They wouldn’t even acknowledge his employment there. When his one year came and went, I waited a week before I showed up at the building. The armed guards wouldn’t talk to me, wouldn’t ring his boss—whoever that is—and they definitely wouldn’t let me inside.
I have no way to reach him.