Claudius stared at the fractured phone screen, the spiderweb cracks distorting the image of the map. His reflection in the dark glass was fragmented, much like his current state of mind.

Hospital or Club?

Reason told him that he should go to the hospital, which is the cornerstone of the family.

But the image Quentin had painted-Dylan, his Dylan, in a room with other men-was a corrosive acid eating through his logic. It burned in his gut, a primal, possessive heat that defied all business sense. This wasn't jealousy. He told himself it wasn't jealousy. It was the fury of a CEO watching a critical, proprietary asset go rogue and risk total exposure. It was damage control. It was protecting the brand.

"Reroute," Claudius said, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating with suppressed violence.

Jensen, driving, looked in the mirror, his eyes widening slightly. "Sir? The hospital is-"

"Elysium," Claudius barked. "Now. We retrieve the asset before it compromises the entire operation."

Jensen slammed on the brakes. The heavy car lurched forward, the seatbelt locking tight against Claudius's chest. He spun the wheel, tires screeching as the Maybach pulled a violent U-turn across the double yellow lines, ignoring the blare of horns from oncoming traffic.

Jensen flipped a switch. A siren wailed, cutting through the traffic like a knife, clearing a path for the black beast of a car.

Claudius opened his iPad. He accessed the security schematics for Elysium. The Snyder Group owned forty percent of the holding company that owned the club. He watched the digital blueprints load, his finger hovering over the VIP sector.

He saw the hallway feed. He saw the closed door of the VIP suite. Two bouncers stood outside, arms crossed, looking bored.

He couldn't see inside. The camera feed for the room itself was blacked out.

The lack of data was maddening. Claudius gripped the edge of the tablet until his knuckles turned white. Unknown variables were unacceptable.

Claudius unbuttoned his collar. He felt like he was suffocating. The air in the car was perfectly climate-controlled, yet it felt thin, hot.

She was his wife. The papers weren't filed. The ink wasn't dry. Legally, morally, she was still his.

He remembered their wedding night. She had worn a backless dress then, too. She had been shy. Reserved. She had trembled when he touched her, her skin cool and soft under his fingertips.

And now? Now she was in a room with "pretty boys," playing games that Quentin Sharpe described with a lecherous sneer.

The car screeched to a halt at the back entrance of the club, the tires smoking against the asphalt.

The manager ran out, sweating, his cheap suit ill-fitting. "Mr. Snyder, we didn't expect-"

Claudius walked past him. He moved like a tank, unstoppable and lethal. The bass from the club thrummed in the pavement, vibrating up through the soles of his shoes.

"That room," the manager stammered, chasing him, struggling to keep up with Claudius's long, angry strides. "The client requested absolute privacy. We have a strict policy-"

Claudius stopped. He turned. His eyes were dead, void of any humanity, two chips of flint. The bouncers at the end of the hall saw him and instinctively took two steps back, lowering their eyes. They recognized a predator when they saw one.

"That client is my wife."

The manager turned pale, the blood draining from his face as if a plug had been pulled. He stepped back. He nodded frantically at the bouncers, who immediately unlocked the door and moved away from it, pressing themselves against the wall to avoid the coming storm.

Jensen followed, putting a finger to his lips, signaling absolute silence to the terrified staff.

Claudius reached the door. He could hear laughter inside. Music. The heavy thud of a beat that mocked his racing heart.

He didn't knock.

He pushed the handle down.

The door slid open with a soft hydraulic hiss.

The noise from the hallway rushed in, then was cut off as the door closed behind him, sealing the room in a sudden, heavy silence.

Claudius stood there. He radiated cold. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees, sucking the oxygen out of the air. The scent of expensive champagne and cloying perfume assaulted his senses.

Zoe was facing the door. She saw him. Her eyes went wide, pupils dilating in sheer terror. The glass of champagne in her hand slipped. It shattered on the floor, the crystal exploding like a gunshot.

Jensen rushed past Claudius. He grabbed Zoe, efficient and ruthless. He clamped a hand over her mouth before she could scream. He dragged her toward the corner, neutralizing the witness.

The three male models looked at Claudius. They saw the suit-bespoke, charcoal grey, worth more than their combined annual income. They saw the violence in his eyes, a promise of pain that required no words.

They didn't need to be told. They scrambled, grabbing their clothes, tripping over each other in their haste, and bolted out the door like rats fleeing a sinking ship.

Dylan didn't hear them leave. The music was still playing, a slow, sensual rhythm that filled the void.

She was standing in the middle of the room, blindfolded with a strip of black silk. Her arms were outstretched, fingers dancing in the empty air.

"Why so quiet?" she laughed, her voice husky, slurring slightly. "Where are you, pretty boys?"

Pretty boys.

A vein in Claudius's temple pulsed, throbbing against the skin.

He waved his hand at Jensen. "Get out."

Jensen dragged a struggling Zoe out of the room, the door clicking shut behind them.

Silence. Only the music and the sound of Claudius's controlled breathing remained.

Dylan frowned behind the silk mask. "Zoe?"

She took a step forward, unsteady on her heels. Her hand brushed against fabric. Fine, Italian wool.

She ran her hand up the lapel, feeling the texture, the stiffness of the interfacing.

"Oh," she purred, a playful smile curving her lips. "A new one? This feels expensive."

She thought he was a stripper. She thought he was paid to be there.

Claudius stood rigid. He didn't breathe. He wanted to see how far she would go. He wanted to see the depth of her betrayal.

Dylan's fingers found his tie. She tugged, pulling him slightly closer.

"You're tense," she whispered, her other hand drifting to his shoulder, squeezing the hard muscle there.

She leaned in. She sniffed his neck, inhaling deeply.

Cedar. Tobacco. A hint of rain and cold air.

She paused. Her smile faltered.

"You smell like him," she murmured, her voice dropping to a whisper, tinged with a sudden, confusing melancholy. "My defaulted asset of an ex."

Claudius's jaw tightened so hard his teeth ached. Defaulted asset.

"But you're warmer," Dylan said, shaking her head as if to clear the memory. "He was an iceberg. He never burned like this."

She flattened her palm against his chest. She could feel his heart beating. It was slow, heavy, powerful-like a war drum.

"Let's see what we have here."

Her hand moved down. Toward his belt. Her fingers grazed the metal buckle.

Claudius moved.

He grabbed her wrist. His grip was steel, unyielding and bruising.

Dylan sucked in a sharp breath. "Strong punch. Are you the top here?"

Claudius leaned down. His lips brushed her ear, his breath hot against her skin.

"Do you really not know who I am?"

His voice was gravel and thunder, a sound that vibrated through her bones.

Dylan froze. The blood drained from her face. The alcohol haze evaporated instantly, replaced by a cold shot of adrenaline.

She tried to rip the blindfold off.

Claudius caught her other hand. He pinned both her wrists against the wall above her head, trapping her.

He pressed his body against hers. Hard. Dominating. Imprinting his anger onto her.

The door banged open.