Artemis’s POV
I didn’t sleep.
The image of Lana—shaking in that hotel room, trying to hold herself together—played over and over in my head. Her words haunted me.
“You’re not my husband.”
But I couldn’t stop caring. I couldn’t unfeel what happened between us.
And I couldn’t forget the look in her eyes when she realized what Devonte had done.
That he had pictures.
That he had power.
That he wouldn’t stop.
So I did the only thing I could think of.
I went to him.
Alone.
No plan. No backup. Just rage.
Devonte’s men let me in like they’d been expecting me. As if they knew I couldn’t help myself.
He was sitting in a leather armchair, sipping whiskey, dressed like a man who thought he was untouchable.
“Well,” he said coolly. “The hero arrives.”
I didn’t speak. I lunged.
The first
