The Trap and the Chase

His assistant, Dorian, slipped behind him with the smoothness of a shadow.

"Sir," Dorian murmured low and quick into his ear. "Mrs. Wolfe hasn't been seen in over twenty minutes. Staff searched the outer terrace. Nothing."

Alexander stiffened, glass halfway to his lips.

"Excuse me," he said coldly to the group, not waiting for a reply as he walked away.

"Sir?" Dorian followed, cautious.

"She wouldn't just disappear," Alexander snapped.

His steps were quick, echoing harshly down the gallery hallway. A server tried to intercept him with a tray — he waved them off with a glare. Dorian kept pace, relaying updates via earpiece to event staff.

"I want every wing checked. Storage rooms, kitchens, staff halls." Alexander's tone was frigid now, sharper than any shard of crystal hanging from the chandeliers.

Meanwhile, Emma's voice was hoarse from shouting.

She slammed her fist against the heavy wooden door again, her palm red from the effort. The cold air in the small utility room stung her skin. Dust coated the walls, and the faint sound of music and laughter bled through the thick walls — mocking her.

She'd been lured here by that man — she never caught his name. Said he was with the foundation. Said Alexander had asked her to meet him privately.

Stupid. So stupid.

Her head throbbed slightly from whatever she'd drunk. Not drugged — not exactly — but something was off. Maybe a mild sedative. It had dulled her reflexes just long enough.

And now?

Now she was locked away, alone, angry, and utterly humiliated.

She tried yelling again, this time louder, voice cracking. She pounded until the metal doorknob rattled.

Nothing.

Not even a footstep.

"Where was she last seen?" he barked, pushing through a hallway of staff-only doors.

"Near the west gallery. One of the backstage wings," Dorian answered, flipping through updates.

Alexander's jaw tightened. "There are five exits back there. All of them locked unless someone tampered."

A young staff member approached, nervous. "Sir, a guest reported seeing her follow someone down toward the side corridor near the sculpture gallery."

Alexander didn't wait.

He stormed off, Dorian trailing again.

The hall narrowed, quieting. Staff doors stood ajar from rushed searches. One by one, Alexander yanked open each one, eyes scanning the shadows.

Then—he paused.

A thudding.

Faint. Erratic. Like fists hitting wood.

He turned to the last door at the end of the corridor.

His stride was swift, furious.

He twisted the handle — locked.

"Emma!" he barked.

There was a sharp gasp from inside. "Alexander?!"

He growled low under his breath and yanked a nearby fire extinguisher from the wall. Dorian stepped back as Alexander slammed the end against the doorknob. Once. Twice. With a third blow, the old lock splintered and cracked.

The door swung open, and Emma stumbled into the hallway, breathless, eyes wide.

"God—finally—" she began, but he cut her off.

"What the hell happened?" he snapped. His voice wasn't kind. It wasn't gentle. It was livid.

The ride back to the mansion had been silent.

Dorian hadn't spoken much — just opened the car door, made a call.

Just the quiet hum of duty.

Alexander didn't come with them. He had stayed back at the event, his words sharp and cold before he turned his back on her.

"Take her home. Make sure she's looked at. I don't care what she says — she doesn't leave the house again tonight."

And so, she didn't.

The doctor had checked her in the drawing room. "A little dehydrated, slight dizziness — but you weren't drugged. Likely just an interaction with champagne and stress."

Emma nodded mutely.

When the doctor left, she changed into soft cotton pajamas and pulled her knees to her chest, curling under the throw blanket like a child. Her throat ached from yelling. Her pride ached worse.Nothing serious, nothing lasting.

Still, the ache in her chest wouldn't go away.

She had changed into one of the robes the maid left out for her and curled up in one of the guest rooms — far from the marital suite she hadn't stepped foot in. But sleep never came.

The fridge door clicked softly as Emma reached inside, her robe slipping off one shoulder. The kitchen was dim — only the under-cabinet lights glowed faintly, casting long shadows on the walls.

Eventually, hunger forced her out of bed. Past midnight now. She padded down to the kitchen barefoot, wrapping the robe tighter around herself.

The marble tiles were cold under her feet. The kitchen staff had gone. Silence draped the hallways like heavy velvet.

She barely heard the footsteps.

But she felt the shift in the air.

Then—

"Hungry?"

The voice cut through the silence like a blade.

Emma spun around, nearly dropping the bowl in her hand.

Alexander stood in the doorway. No jacket. Shirt unbuttoned at the collar. His face was unreadable — but his eyes, sharp and hollow, carried something new.

Something dangerous.

"I—I couldn't sleep," Emma stammered.

He stepped forward slowly, each footstep echoing louder than it should.

"No?" His tone was flat. Icy. "And why would that be, Emma?"

She swallowed. "Because I'm not… used to this. To any of this."

He stilled.

A pause.

A beat too long.

Then suddenly, the kitchen felt colder.

Alexander moved closer.

One step.

Then another.

His voice dropped, each word sinking like a stone into her gut. "Not used to what? Wearing diamonds? Living in a mansion? Having your family's disgrace buried beneath gold-plated silence?"

She flinched.

He was in front of her now, and she instinctively stepped back until her spine met the counter.

"But you are used to wandering off with strange men, aren't you?" he asked, tilting his head. His voice held no emotion. Just menace.

"That's not fair—" she began.

Before she could finish, he grabbed her chin, forcing her face up, fingers firm, not painful, but unyielding. The contact shocked her.

"You're right," he said quietly. "Life isn't fair."

His grip tightened slightly, his thumb brushing against her cheek, her skin cold under his touch.

"You think you can cry and break down and beg for understanding?" His words were venom dressed in velvet. "You have no idea what kind of world you've stepped into."

"I didn't ask for any of this!" she said, her voice cracking, her chest heaving now, panic crawling into her throat.

He leaned down, his breath brushing against her cheek. "No, your father did."

Her mouth parted — a soft, helpless breath.

Alexander's eyes darkened further.

"Do you think you get to walk around this house whining about what you're not 'used to'? You married me. You wear my name. You eat under my roof. Your life is mine to decide now."

Emma felt her lungs tightening.

His fingers dug into her jaw just a little deeper — not bruising, but enough to send a clear message.

She tried to turn her face, but he wouldn't let her.

"You want sympathy? Go ask your sister — the one who eloped and nearly ruined me in the process."

Emma whimpered softly, her eyes stinging.

Alexander leaned even closer, and his words fell like a curse.

"I can destroy you in silence. I don't need a scandal. All I need to do is look away—and you'll vanish. Just like that."

She couldn't breathe.

The weight of his presence. His words. His power.

Everything suffocated her at once.

Then suddenly—he let go.

Emma stumbled back, gripping the edge of the counter to steady herself. Her hands shook.

Alexander watched her for a moment. His jaw tense. His chest rising and falling slowly.

"I'll find the man who did this," he said, voice like steel. "And I'll make sure he doesn't breathe near you again."

Emma looked up at him, defiant despite the fear still clinging to her bones.

And with that, he walked out — no glance back, no apology.

Just silence.

And Emma?

She slid down to the floor, her arms wrapped around her knees, lips trembling, trying to breathe past the tightness in her throat.