I Was Only His Substitute

Chapter 9

Vincent carried Dora out of the blazing inferno and dove into the car without a glance back. He shouted at the driver, "Go to the nearest hospital! Hurry!"

All his focus was on Dora. He didn't register the warehouse collapsing behind them, much less spare a thought for Gloria.

He shuttled daily between the company and the hospital, attending to Dora's every need.

It wasn't until one afternoon, while peeling grapes for Dora, that Gloria crossed his mind.

She used to peel them for him, always feeding them to him herself.

When Dora finally slept, Vincent slipped out of the ward and dialed that familiar number.

"The number you have dialed is currently unavailable..."

Frowning, he redialed.

It still didn't connect.

He scoffed and shoved the phone back in his pocket.

'Grown a spine, has she? She's giving me the cold shoulder now? Fine. I won't play along. Once she cracks, she'll beg me.'

In the following days, Vincent remained devoted to Dora's care, though his eyes kept straying to his phone.

A nagging unease tugged at him, but Dora's endless demands left no room for reflection.

Two weeks later, Dora finally returned home.

She scowled the moment she stepped inside.

"Where's Gloria? After putting me in the hospital, shouldn't she be begging for my forgiveness?"

Vincent's hand froze mid-pour.

'Yeah... Where is Gloria? The house feels unnaturally still this time.'

"I don't know," he said, his voice brittle.

Dora arched a brow, taunting, "Probably died in that warehouse! The fire was massive, and she was already half-dead. Uncle Vincent! You're spilling the water!"

Vincent set down the cup hastily, his mind flooding with the image of Gloria—bloodied, broken.

His distraction darkened Dora's expression. She asked, "You're worried about her?"

"No!" The denial came too fast, his voice sharp with unaccountable frustration.

"Why are you yelling at me?" Dora's face twisted in outrage. "She nearly killed me! And now you're taking her side?"

Normally, he'd be showering her with apologies by now.

Today, he just rubbed his temples, a hint of impatience he barely registered coloring his words. "Dora, that's not what I meant."

Dora shook with rage. "Liar! I never want to see you again!"

She snatched her purse and flung it at his chest before bolting from the villa.

The sudden silence rang deafening. Vincent pulled out his phone and made a call. "Find Gloria."

Minutes later, his lackey reported, "Mr. Stevens, no trace. Since the warehouse, it's like Gloria was erased."

Vincent's gut clenched. "Turn over every stone. I want her found."

Hanging up, he realized his restlessness was clawing at him, relentless.

He walked to the liquor cabinet, poured himself a glass of whiskey, and drank it in one go.

Yet the alcohol failed to calm him, as the image of Gloria, covered in blood, resurfaced in his mind, becoming increasingly vivid.

Even her final anguished scream seemed to echo in his ears once more.

"Vincent!"

A sudden, sharp pain stabbed through his chest. His hand trembled, and the glass fell to the floor.

He stared blankly at the shattered pieces and sat motionless until dawn.

The next day, Andy sent Vincent a video—a grainy surveillance footage from outside the warehouse.

He watched himself carrying Dora out, getting into the car, and driving away.

Then, in the next moment, the warehouse collapsed.

From start to finish, there was no sign of Gloria in the footage.

Vincent frantically clicked the mouse, replaying the video in slow motion again and again.

But still, there was no trace of Gloria—not so much as a thread of her clothing.

An icy terror shot up from the soles of his feet, spreading instantly through his entire body.

He abruptly stood and stormed out of the villa, bellowing into his phone, "Find her! I want her found—alive or dead!"