Sean reached into his pocket and looked down at the vibrating phone—it was Geoffrey. Raising a hand to silence the lawyer who was talking, he pressed the phone to his ear.

"What is it?" he asked, a dreadful feeling knotting in his stomach.

​​

"Something is going on at the hotel," Geoffrey said. "A waitress was about to spill boiling fondue all over Mrs. Blair. I got in the way and stopped her, but then we were separated. I think it was all meant as a distraction. Someone is trying to hurt her."

His blood ran cold, and he ended the call, putting his phone back in his pocket.

"That's all for today, gentlemen," he said.

"But we haven't signed the—" began a lawyer.

"I said that's all for today," he shouted.

He forced himself to walk calmly and slowly from the conference room, but as soon as the door clicked shut, he sprinted down the hall to the elevators, cursing the machines for moving so slowly. He got into his car and sped out of the garage, the tires squealing on the pavement.

Outside, he pushed the accelerator all the way down to the floor, ignoring the horns that blared around him. The night sky was dark with thick storm clouds, and the air felt heavy and foreboding. As he drove, his phone began to vibrate again. With one hand on the wheel, he slid it out of his pocket.

Catherine's name appeared on the screen, and his heart thudded in his chest. He accepted the call.

"Catherine?" he asked. "Catherine?"

She didn't reply. There was a scream and then a loud banging sound and then another shout. His stomach sank, and he shouted her name over and over until his throat burned. He fumbled for his secondary phone and called Drew.

"You need to get the police to the Mandarin Oriental Hotel," he barked.

"Is it Catherine?" Drew asked.

"Yes," he said and hung up.

The half-hour drive took him ten minutes. He pulled in front of the hotel, ignoring the shouts and screams of the valets and drivers. With the engine still running, he leaped out of the car and sped into the lobby.

At the back of the lobby, Madison stood with a small group of young people dressed in pastel suits and dresses. She saw him, and her face burst into a calculated smile, but as soon as he started sprinting toward her, it fell. Confusion and fear flashed in her eyes and wrinkled her forehead.

"Where is she?" he shouted.

Madison flinched as if she'd been slapped, "Who?"

"Cut the bullshit," he shouted. "Where's my wife?"

"I—I—I don't know," she stammered.

"You do," he said. "And trust me, the sooner you tell me, the better for you."

"I really don't," she whimpered. "I heard she got in one of the elevators and went up to a hotel room, but I don't know who she was with or where she went."

He gritted his teeth, trying to fight the urge to slap her. Instead, he grabbed her delicate wrist and tugged her toward the concierge desk. She whimpered quietly, but he ignored her, dragging her halfway across the lobby in seconds.

"Can I help you, sir?" a female concierge asked.

"Where's my wife?" he asked.

"Sir, I can't possibly know that," the concierge said.

"She has dark hair and—" he began.

The concierge's expression shifted, and she pursed her mouth in a sour expression. "I know who you're talking about, sir," she said. "But I can't possibly tell you where she's gone. That violates our privacy policy."

He wanted to leap over the counter and grab her by the collar of the shirt. Instead, he took a deep breath.

"I demand you tell me where my wife went," he said. "This is a matter of life or death."

The concierge sneered slightly. "That's what all husbands with cheating wives say," she muttered.

"What?" he asked.

"I'm sorry, sir," she said more loudly. "I'm afraid I can't help you."

"Listen to me very carefully," he hissed. "My name is Sean Blair, and my wife is somewhere in your hotel. If anything happens to her, you people won't know what hit you. My lawyers will take this place apart brick by brick, and I'll have every last employee sued and fined. Do you understand?"

The concierge's face had gone pale, "She went upstairs to the fourth floor."

"Which room?" he shouted.

"Let me check the system," she said, tapping something on the computer keyboard. "She went to room 436."

"Give me a key," he snapped.

"Sir, that's very—" the concierge began.

"I said give me a bloody key," he shouted.

"Yes, sir," the concierge replied.

She passed him the plastic keycard, and he ran straight for the stairs, charging up to them two at a time. He sprinted down the hall without seeing it, checking each door number as he ran. He stopped outside 436 and pressed the flimsy plastic to the lock. Inside the room, he could muffle groaning. He threw the door open and raced into the room, terrified of what he'd find.

The room was dim. The heavy curtains were drawn closed, and a single lamp glowed in the corner. A man was on top of the bed, straddling the kicking and flailing body of a woman. A ringing sound filled his ear, and his mind went blank. He raced across the room, grabbed the man by the back of the neck, and threw him onto the floor.

Before the man could move, he leveled a kick directly at his head, kicking him in the back of the skull. The man grunted and tried to move, but he sent another kick flying at his back, aiming for the kidneys. The man groaned louder and twitched slightly.

"Sean," Catherine mumbled. "Sean, is that you?"

He left the man on the floor and raced to the bed. Catherine was pale and shivering. The blood had drained from her face, and a sheen of sweat covered her skin. Her eyes fluttered, and he could see the weak beat of her pulse in her neck. Worst of all, there was blood all over the front of her dress, and the red liquid stained her mouth.

"Sean is that you?" she asked again.

"It's me," he whispered. "It's me."

"Oh," she mumbled. "Good."