Kade POV

Seven days.

One hundred and sixty-eight hours of silence.

I sat behind the massive mahogany desk in my study, a glass of amber whiskey untouched near my hand. The house was quiet—too quiet. Usually, there was the faint sound of Isabelle moving through the halls, the soft click of her heels, or the distant hum of her presence that I had taken for granted. Now, the silence was a physical weight, pressing against my temples.

On the leather sofa across from me, that damn white cat, Fluffy, stared at me with unblinking green eyes. It hadn't moved in hours. It looked at me with the same silent accusation I had seen in Isabelle's eyes before she walked out.

"Stop looking at me," I muttered, running a hand through my hair.

The cat yawned, unimpressed, and curled back into a ball.

Isabelle was playing a game. That was the only logical explanation. She had left the divorce papers—unsigned by me, of course—and the ring on the nightstand like a dramatic teenager. She thought this stunt would force my hand? She thought disappearing to her friend's little apartment would make me chase her?

She was wrong. I was the Underboss of the Cameron family. I didn't chase. I waited. And when she realized how cold the world was without my protection, she would come back.

My phone buzzed on the desk. Mother.

I swiped to answer, putting it on speaker. "What is it?"

"Have you retrieved your wife yet, Kade?" Audie Cameron's voice was sharp, cutting through the stale air of the office. "People are starting to ask questions. It looks... messy."

"She needs time to cool off," I said, leaning back in my chair. "She's at the Greene girl's apartment."

"Yes, I know," my mother sighed, her tone dripping with disdain. "I had one of my men check. She's been locked in there all week, crying her eyes out, apparently sick with grief. Pathetic, really."

I felt a knot of tension loosen in my chest. Crying. Sick. Good. That meant she was suffering. That meant she regretted it.

"Let her cry," I said coldly. "She needs to learn that tantrums have consequences. When she's ready to apologize, she can come home."

"Just make sure she doesn't run to your grandfather," Audie warned. "We don't need the Elder involved in your marital squabbles. Tonight is the St. Regis Charity Gala. You need to be there. Alone. Show them the Cameron family is unbothered."

"I'll be there," I promised.

I hung up, a grim satisfaction settling over me. Isabelle was breaking. It was only a matter of time before she returned to her place.

The St. Regis Grand Ballroom was a cesspool of fake smiles and expensive lies. Crystal chandeliers the size of small cars hung from the ceiling, casting a glittering light over the city's elite—politicians, businessmen, and the monsters like me who pulled their strings.

I stood in the private box on the second floor, gripping the velvet-covered railing. From here, I could see everything, but no one could touch me. The air smelled of champagne and desperation.

"Signor Cameron," Marco said from behind me. He was my most trusted soldier, a man of few words.

"Report," I said, not taking my eyes off the crowd below. I was scanning for threats, for rival families, for anything out of place.

"The perimeter is secure. The Shaws are here, near the bar. And..." Marco hesitated. That was unlike him.

I turned, frowning. "And what?"

Marco cleared his throat, stepping closer to the railing. He pointed a gloved hand toward the center of the room, near the massive marble fountain that served as the focal point of the dance floor.

"A thousand pardons, Boss... but the woman in the red dress, by the fountain... is that not the Signora?"

My blood ran cold.

Isabelle? Here? Impossible. My mother said she was sick. She was supposed to be curled up in a ball, mourning the loss of me.

I followed Marco's finger.

At first, I didn't recognize her. The woman standing by the fountain was wearing a gown of blood-red silk that clung to every curve of her body—curves I thought I knew, but which looked dangerously foreign in that dress. The back was open, exposing a expanse of pale, creamy skin that I had claimed a thousand times.

She wasn't crying. She wasn't sick.

She was laughing.

Her head was thrown back, her neck exposed, as she smiled at a man standing next to her. A man I didn't know.

The glass in my hand shattered.

Whiskey and blood dripped onto the expensive carpet, but I didn't feel the cut. All I could feel was the inferno igniting in my chest. The lie my mother told me dissolved, replaced by a truth that was far more jagged and violent.

She wasn't hiding. She was parading herself.

"Stay here," I growled, my voice sounding like grinding stones.

I didn't wait for Marco's reply. I turned toward the stairs, my vision tunneling. The world narrowed down to that splash of red in a sea of black and white.

She wanted to be seen? Fine.

I would make sure the whole world saw who she belonged to.

Kade POV

The glass shards bit into my palm, a sharp, grounding pain that failed to distract me from the carnage unfolding in my chest. Blood mixed with the spilled whiskey, dripping onto the velvet railing, but I didn't look down. I couldn't look away from her.

Isabelle.

My wife, who was supposed to be withering away in a dark room, mourning the withdrawal of my presence. My mother had promised me a broken woman. Instead, I was staring at a queen in blood-red silk, holding court in the center of my territory.

"Stay here," I growled at Marco. My voice was a low rumble, vibrating with a violence that made my seasoned soldier take a step back.

"Boss, if you go down there in this state—"

"I said, stay."

I didn't wait for his acknowledgment. I turned and strode toward the exit of the private box, the heavy door slamming shut behind me. The corridor was empty, the muffled sounds of the orchestra filtering through the walls like a funeral march.

I descended the grand staircase, my hand sliding down the marble banister, leaving a faint smear of crimson in my wake. Every step was a calculation. Every breath was fuel for the inferno. She thought she could play games? She thought she could wear that dress—a dress that clung to her like a second skin, exposing the spine I had traced with my tongue a thousand times—and smile at another man?

She was a Cameron. She was mine. And tonight, I would remind her that freedom was just an illusion I allowed her to keep.

At the bottom of the stairs, a figure stepped into my path, blocking my line of sight to the dance floor.

"You look like you're about to murder someone, Kade."

Carla Shaw stood there, a vision of calculated innocence in a shimmering silver gown. As the daughter of a rival family, she should have been an enemy, but my mother had always favored her. She had the kind of cold, sharp beauty that fit our world—predictable, ambitious, and ruthless.

Unlike the chaos currently spinning in the center of the room.

"Move, Carla," I said, my eyes flicking over her shoulder, searching for that splash of red.

"She's making a fool of you, you know," Carla said softly, stepping closer. Her voice was low, intimate, designed to slide under my defenses. "Everyone is whispering. The Underboss's wife, running around like a single woman, laughing with strangers. It makes you look... weak."

The word struck me like a physical blow. Weak.

I looked down at her, my jaw tightening until my teeth ached. "Careful."

"I'm only looking out for you," she purred, placing a hand on my arm. Her touch was light, but her eyes were predatory. "Don't storm over there and cause a scene. That's what a brute would do. Show them you don't care. Show her she's replaceable."

She extended her hand toward the dance floor. "Dance with me."

I looked past her, locking my gaze on the fountain. Isabelle was there. And she wasn't alone.

A man—tall, with sandy hair and a smile that was too wide, too friendly—was bowing to her. Devon Walter. A nobody from a family that dealt in scraps. I watched as Isabelle hesitated, then placed her hand in his.

The sight of her skin against his suit jacket made my vision blur with red.

"Kade?" Carla pressed, sensing my volatility.

A cruel, cold clarity washed over me. Carla was right. Dragging Isabelle out by her hair would only prove I was affected. But replacing her? Ignoring her while I paraded another woman in front of her face? That was a blade that would cut deeper.

"Fine," I said, my voice devoid of warmth.

I grabbed Carla's hand, my grip tight enough to bruise. A flicker of pain crossed her face, but she smiled, triumphant.

We moved toward the dance floor, cutting through the crowd like a shark through water. The sea of black tuxedos and polite conversation parted for us. I didn't look at the people bowing their heads or murmuring my name. My focus was singular.

As we stepped onto the polished wood, the orchestra swelled into a waltz. I pulled Carla against me, but my eyes were fixed on the couple a few yards away.

Isabelle was moving with a grace I hadn't seen in years. She looked radiant, alive... and completely detached from the misery she should have been feeling. Devon Walter said something, and she laughed again. Then, he did the unthinkable.

He placed his hand on the small of her back. Right on the bare skin exposed by the low cut of her dress.

My steps faltered for a fraction of a second.

"Look at him," Carla whispered in my ear, her voice dripping with poison. "He touches her as if she's free property. As if the Cameron name means nothing."

The beast inside me roared, tearing at its chains. That hand. That filth was touching what belonged to me.

"He's a dead man," I murmured, the promise tasting like iron on my tongue.

"Then let's make sure he enjoys his last dance," Carla replied, tightening her hold on my shoulder.

I spun Carla around, maneuvering us closer, stalking my prey to the rhythm of the music. Isabelle hadn't seen me yet. She was too busy smiling at the corpse walking next to her.

Enjoy it while you can, tesoro (treasure). Because when the music stops, I'm going to burn this whole world down to get you back.

Kade POV

The ballroom of the St. Regis was a gilded cage, smelling of expensive perfume, old money, and the metallic tang of my own restraint snapping, thread by thread.

I stood at the edge of the dance floor, my body rigid, a weapon sheathed in a tuxedo. My eyes were locked on the woman in red. Isabelle. My wife. The woman who had vanished from my home, leaving behind nothing but cold sheets and a shattered reputation, was now here, spinning in the arms of a stranger.

Devon Walter.

I watched as he leaned in, whispering something that made the corners of Isabelle's lips curl upward. It wasn't the polite, terrified smile she used to give me during our rare dinners. It was genuine. Soft.

It felt like a knife twisting in my gut.

She looked radiant. Healthy. Alive. For days, I had imagined her suffering, regretting her decision to run. I had pictured her scared and alone. But she wasn't suffering. She was thriving. She had traded the safety of my protection for the arms of a nobody, a man whose family scraped for crumbs at the bottom of the food chain.

"She doesn't look like a grieving wife, does she?" Carla's voice was a silk ribbon wrapping around my throat, tightening with every word.

I didn't answer. I couldn't. The rage was a physical thing now, clawing at the back of my throat.

"Look at them," Carla continued, stepping closer until her arm brushed against mine. "They're whispering. Laughing. The Underboss of the Cameron family is standing right here, and his wife is acting like a debutante on the prowl. It's... embarrassing, Kade."

Embarrassing. The word struck a nerve that bypassed logic and went straight to the primitive part of my brain that demanded respect through blood.

"She thinks she's free," I said, my voice a low grind of gravel.

"Then show her she isn't," Carla purred. She turned to face me, her silver eyes gleaming with calculated malice. "Don't make a scene like a jealous husband. That's beneath you. Show her she doesn't matter. Show everyone that the Camerons don't beg for loyalty—we replace it."

She held out her hand again, a silent invitation to war.

I looked at Isabelle one last time. Devon's hand slid lower on her back, his fingers splaying over the red silk. That hand. I was going to cut it off.

But not yet.

I took Carla's hand. "Let's dance."

We swept onto the floor, cutting a path through the sea of black and white. The crowd parted for us, murmurs rippling through the room like a shockwave. I didn't look at them. I pulled Carla flush against me, my grip bordering on painful, but she didn't flinch. She smiled, resting her head near my shoulder, playing the part of the perfect, obedient consort.

The music shifted, the tempo increasing as the Master of Ceremonies announced the mixer—a game where partners were swapped at the whim of the spotlight.

I maneuvered us through the waltz, stalking my prey. Isabelle was passed from Devon to an elderly associate, then to a young Capo from the Chicago outfit. She moved with a fluidity I had never seen, her red dress swirling like a pool of blood around her ankles.

"She's enjoying it," Carla whispered against my ear, her breath hot. "Look at her. Passed from hand to hand. She looks like she belongs to everyone tonight. Is that the kind of woman you want back in your bed? A public spectacle?"

"Shut up, Carla," I warned, though I didn't push her away. Her poison was mixing with my own, creating a toxic clarity.

Isabelle wasn't just running. She was advertising her availability. She was spitting on my name, on the ring she had abandoned, on the vows that bound her to me until death.

You want to play games, Isabelle? Fine.

The music swelled to a crescendo. The chatter in the room died down as the overhead spotlights began their frantic search across the floor, hunting for the next pair to switch.

I tightened my hold on Carla, my eyes never leaving the back of Isabelle's neck. I willed her to turn around. I willed her to see the monster she had unleashed.

The music cut out abruptly.

Two beams of harsh white light slammed down from the ceiling, freezing the world in high contrast.

One spotlight trapped Isabelle. She was back in Devon Walter's arms, her chest heaving slightly, her face flushed.

The other spotlight hit me.

The silence that followed was absolute. The air was sucked out of the room, leaving a vacuum filled only with tension and the promise of violence. Across the expanse of polished wood, Isabelle slowly turned her head. Her eyes met mine.

The color drained from her face, leaving her as pale as a ghost. The smile vanished.

Good.

I released Carla, letting my arms drop to my sides, and took the first step toward the center of the floor. The game required a switch. And I was done waiting.