Chapter 4
1500 Words
The moment the door closed and Rose left, the penthouse suite fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Victor stood frozen in the center of the room. The calm, composed mask he had worn in front of Rose instantly shattered, replaced by a volatile mix of fury and confusion.
"Dammit."
Victor slammed his crystal glass down onto the marble table. The amber liquid sloshed over the rim, spilling onto the polished surface. He exhaled a ragged breath, trying to rein in his emotions. For seven long years, he had drilled it into his head that he hated Rose. He had truly believed he was over her, over their ruined marriage.
But tonight, just seeing her in that tight, revealing nightclub uniform was enough to tear down the walls he had spent years building.
Victor walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window, staring out at the sprawling New York City skyline. He couldn't shake the memory of Rose’s face right after she took that phone call. She had looked utterly terrified. Victor knew she was hiding something. Something massive—enough to make a woman as proud as Rose drop her dignity and beg on her knees for money.
Victor clenched his jaw hard. He despised the fact that after seven years apart, she could still unravel his mind this easily in a single night.
The sudden vibration of the phone in his trousers pocket broke his train of thought. He pulled it out and glanced at the screen.
Joana.
A wave of disgust washed over him. He let the phone vibrate in his hand for a few seconds before finally swiping the screen to answer. He kept quiet, waiting for her to speak first.
"Victor! Where the hell are you?!" Joana’s voice was shrill, practically screeching with rage. "Why weren't you picking up? Do you even know what day it is? It’s my birthday! Every single one of our relatives, business partners, and my friends are here at the house. They’re all asking for you, and you just disappear!"
Victor listened to the tirade with a blank expression, his eyes still fixed on the city below. He knew it was her birthday. In fact, the lavish party hosted at their mansion was the exact reason he had sought refuge at the club tonight. He had left on purpose, entirely unwilling to play the part of the doting, happy husband in front of a crowd.
To the public, they were the perfect power couple. In reality, Victor and Joana were nothing more than two strangers sharing a roof. In all these years, Victor had never once touched her. Every ounce of his capacity to love had been drained by Rose. After Rose walked out and betrayed him, Victor felt as if his heart had simply died.
"I’m on my way back," Victor cut her off, his tone flat and icy.
"Victor, but you—"
He hung up before she could finish, completely indifferent to whatever tantrum she would throw next.
Turning on his heel, Victor grabbed his dark gray overcoat from the sofa. As he slipped it on, a firm knock sounded at the door. Mark, his personal assistant, stepped inside and gave a respectful nod.
Instantly, Victor’s expression locked back into a cold, unreadable calm. He refused to let his staff see how shaken he actually was.
"Mr. Halston, the car is ready downstairs," Mark reported.
Victor paused, thinking for a brief moment before issuing his command in a low, authoritative voice. "Mark, get your people moving tonight."
Mark looked up, waiting for the directive.
"Find out who called Rose earlier. Find out where she went tonight, and exactly what she needs that money for," Victor said. "I want a full report on my desk tomorrow morning, before she steps foot in my office."
"Understood, sir."
Victor brushed past Mark and walked out of the suite. If Rose thought she could walk back into his life, stir up old wounds, and leave without answers, she was mistaken. He had a whole month with her now, and he was going to unearth every single thing she was hiding.
***
When the sedan pulled through the heavy iron gates of the estate, Victor noticed how eerily quiet the grounds were. In previous years, Joana’s birthday bashes would blast music until sunrise. Tonight, the driveway was already cleared of the luxury cars belonging to their high-society guests.
Victor entered through the grand front doors. The remnants of the party were scattered across the foyer—expensive floral arrangements, half-empty champagne flutes left on side tables, and dimming scented candles. The massive living room was dead silent.
Sitting alone on the center sofa was Joana. She was dressed in a spectacular, crystal-encrusted gown, but her face was warped in a bitter scowl, her eyes staring blankly at the floor.
"Is it over?" Victor asked indifferently. It was empty small talk; he didn't actually care.
Joana snapped her head up. Her eyes were bloodshot and swollen, flashing with pure hatred the moment she saw him walk in. "Yes. I kicked them all out."
Victor didn't reply. He kept walking, heading past the living area toward the grand staircase. He couldn't care less if his wife had ruined her own party out of spite.
His sheer indifference pushed Joana over the edge. She clenched her fists tightly in her lap. "You aren't even going to ask why?!"
Victor’s foot stopped on the first step. Slowly, he turned around and looked down at her with cold, detached eyes. "What?"
Joana bolted up from the sofa and stormed toward him, the sharp click of her stiletto heels echoing loudly against the marble floor. Her breathing was ragged with fury. "Everyone was talking about me tonight, Victor! They were whispering behind my back. They were laughing at how pathetic Mrs. Halston looked, celebrating her birthday completely alone without her husband!"
Victor stood his ground, watching her without a shred of emotion.
"They all know we're a sham!" Joana screamed, her voice cracking with humiliation. "You've never shown up to a single event I’ve hosted. We're only ever seen together if it’s one of your corporate galas where you need me as arm candy for appearances. But the other way around? You're never there for me!"
Victor let out a short, weary breath, averting his eyes. He was thoroughly bored of hearing the exact same script. "People in our circle will always talk, Joana. Stop obsessing over trivial things."
"Trivial?!" Joana’s voice pitched higher as tears finally spilled down her cheeks. "I've spent seven years trying to be a good wife to you. How much longer do I have to be punished for a mistake that I didn't even make alone?"
Victor went still. He looked down at her, his eyes hardening into flint.
"I have fulfilled every single obligation as your husband, Joana," Victor said, his voice deep, quiet, and perfectly steady. "I gave you an unlimited black card, a staff to cater to your every whim, and the social status every woman in this city kills for. I assumed the luxury you enjoy every single day was more than enough."
"But I need you!" Joana cut him off, sobbing hysterically as she took another step forward, her tears smudging her expensive makeup. "What kind of wife lives for years in a marriage without ever being touched by her husband?! Me! I am the only one suffering like this!"
Victor’s jaw clenched so tight the muscle ticked. The temperature in the room seemed to plummet instantly, turning dangerous.
"I have never forced you to stay in this house, Joana," Victor replied, his voice dropping to a low, threatening whisper. "You are the one who chooses to stay."
Joana froze, the breath catching in her throat as she choked back a sob. Without waiting for her response, Victor turned his back on her and walked up to the second floor, heading straight for his private study.
The moment the heavy oak door closed behind him, Victor loosened the top button of his shirt. Before he could even sit at his desk, his phone buzzed.
It was a text from Mark.
Victor snatched the phone and opened the initial report file his assistant had attached. His eyes quickly swept over the brief lines of text.
She arrived at St. Mary's Hospital twenty minutes ago, sir. Admission records show she registered a patient in critical condition.
Victor held his breath for a split second. He tapped the screen, scrolling further down the document. His eyes locked onto a child's name written at the bottom of the page.
Patient Name: Noel Watson. Age: Six.
Victor frowned, his thumb freezing against the glass.
Six years old?
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