Zade woke with a sharp ache lodged between his shoulders.
The light pouring through the foyer’s tall windows painted the marble floors gold, but there was nothing warm about it. The air felt too still. The silence too loud.
He sat up stiffly from the velvet bench by the window, neck cricked, jacket wrinkled from a night spent upright. His hand immediately went to his phone, the screen already familiar:
No new messages.
No missed calls.
No Alex.
She hadn’t come back.
Not during the dead of night.
Not at dawn.
Not at all.
And now, the quiet concern that kept him anchored in that hallway all night boiled over into something darker. Real.
She was missing. Not metaphorically. Not emotionally.
Physically gone.
He stood, heart pounding faster than he wanted to admit, and started pacing. His brain scrambled to list every possibility, every enemy, every threat.
Michael?
No. That weak little parasite didn’t have the spine. As much as Zade hated him, Michael still worshipped Alex like she hung the moon. He wouldn’t hurt her.
The Stewarts?
They’d made power plays. Sabotaged reports. Tried to tip the balance in their favor. But this wasn’t their style. Their warfare was corporate, not personal.
This?
This was personal.
This was targeted.
This stunk of family.
His family.
Zade’s jaw locked as he grabbed his keys and stormed toward the elevator. No hesitation. No plan. Just a name thrumming in his skull with every pounding heartbeat.
Simon.
***
The Hale mansion’s iron gates swung open on command. No guards dared question Zade as he stormed through. They just watched—silent, tense—like they sensed something coming.
Inside, he didn’t pause. Didn’t knock.
He pushed straight through the heavy oak door of his father’s office.
Simon Hale looked up from a set of polished legal documents, pen poised neatly between two fingers. His face didn’t flicker with surprise, only mild irritation.
“Good morning, son,” Simon said smoothly. “To what do I owe the—”
“Did you do something to Alex?” Zade snapped.
The words cut the air like a blade.
Simon’s eyes lifted, slowly, as if registering the weight of Zade’s tone. He set the pen down and leaned back, folding his hands with care.
“Excuse me?” he asked, voice deceptively calm.
Zade didn’t move. “She’s gone. Missing. No contact since yesterday. And don’t you dare pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
Simon’s mouth twitched, just once, before his expression hardened into its usual mask of indifference. “If your fiancée is missing,” he said coldly, “perhaps you should be directing that concern toward your own incompetence, not mine.”
“Stop lying,” Zade growled.
Simon’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “You forget who you’re speaking to.”
“No,” Zade said, stepping closer, voice low and razor-sharp. “I know exactly who I’m speaking to. That’s the point.”
For a brief second, the illusion cracked. Simon’s gaze flared with something primal—offended, ancient fury, like being questioned was beneath him.
But he exhaled slowly and straightened his tie, smoothing his tone again. “I haven’t the faintest clue where your girl is. And frankly, Zade, it’s not my concern. If you’ve misplaced her, I suggest you look harder.”
Zade’s fists clenched.
He wanted to hit something.
To knock over that perfect desk.
To shatter the glass holding all his father’s control in place.
To scream until the whole damn mansion trembled.
Instead, Simon flicked a hand toward the door, already done with the conversation.
Zade didn’t say another word.
He turned on his heel and walked out before he did something neither of them could take back.
***
The hallway outside Simon’s office was hushed, lined with portraits of long-dead Hales and silent security cameras tucked into the moldings. Zade’s footsteps echoed louder than he liked.
Then a voice drawled behind him.
“Rough morning?”
Zade stopped mid-stride.
Andrea Hale leaned lazily against the wall just across from Simon’s door, a silver ring twirling between his fingers. His suit was rumpled, his smirk casual, but there was something too calculated in the way he watched Zade. Like he’d been waiting.
Zade’s chest tightened.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked flatly.
Andrea tilted his head. “Came to see our dear old dad. Family matters. You know how it is.”
Zade’s eyes narrowed. “Have you seen Alex?”
Andrea blinked, mock surprise crossing his features. “Alex? Oh. Is that what this storm cloud is about?”
He chuckled under his breath, tossing the ring in the air and catching it. “No offense, brother, but she was always a bit of a headache.”
Zade stepped closer. “Don’t test me, Andrea.”
Andrea’s smirk deepened, voice dipping lower. “Relax. I’ve got better things to do than babysit your clingy little fiancé. She’s not my type anyway. Too righteous. Too loud.”
Zade’s pulse hammered in his temples. “You swear you didn’t touch her?”
Andrea rolled his eyes. “Why would I? If she vanished, that’s your mess, not mine. Maybe she got tired of playing games with you.”
His words were too smooth. Too dismissive.
Zade didn’t believe him.
Not one bit.
Andrea turned to walk away, muttering, “Maybe try not losing the next one,” as he disappeared down the corridor.
Zade didn’t follow.
He stood there, rooted, fury bubbling under his skin.
Andrea knew something.
Maybe not everything. But something.
The way he was lurking outside Simon’s office. The way he didn’t flinch when Zade mentioned Alex’s name. The timing. The smugness.
It all felt too convenient.
Too practiced.
Zade turned, stalked out of the mansion without another word, and slammed the car door behind him.
His hands were trembling as he gripped the wheel.
If Alex was hurt—if she was suffering—because of them...
He would burn the whole Hale empire down.
Starting from the inside.