Chapter 1 - Find Your Own Way HomeThe mafia boss refused to drive his wife home after their worst fight, and by sunrise she had vanished without a trace
The last thing Adrian Vale said to his wife before she disappeared was, “Find your own way home.”
Then he watched her step out of his car.
Alone.
At 11:47 on a freezing November night.
Thirty miles from their house.
Adrian would spend the rest of his life remembering the exact sound of that door slamming.
At the time, he was too angry to care.
Emma stood beneath the yellow light outside Bellamy House, a private restaurant tucked against the dark shoreline north of Chicago. The wind came off the lake hard enough to whip her auburn hair across her wet cheeks.
She stared through the passenger window.
“Are you serious?”
Adrian kept both hands on the steering wheel.
His jaw was tight. His black coat was still buttoned from dinner, and beneath it sat the tailored suit that made strangers move out of his way before they even knew his name.
“I told you,” he said. “I’m done arguing.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“Emma.”
“Look at me.”
He didn’t.
That hurt more than if he had screamed.
Three years earlier, Adrian Vale had promised her that no matter how ugly their disagreements became, he would never make her feel abandoned.
Emma had believed him.
That had been before she learned what loving Adrian meant.
The guards.
The locked doors.
The drivers.
The men who appeared whenever they went somewhere public.
The phone calls that stopped when she entered a room.
The enemies Adrian insisted she never needed to know about.
And lately, something worse.
His growing belief that protecting her gave him the right to control her.
Tonight’s fight had begun because Emma discovered that Adrian had canceled her appointment with a commercial real-estate broker.
Without telling her.
She had spent eight months quietly planning to reopen the small neighborhood bakery her mother once owned.
Adrian had purchased the building through one of his companies.
Then he had killed the lease.
“I was protecting you,” he told her during dinner.
“You were deciding for me.”
“That neighborhood isn’t secure.”
“It’s where I grew up.”
“Exactly.”
She had stared at him across the white tablecloth.
“Do you hear yourself?”
Adrian’s expression changed.
“Everything I do is to keep you alive.”
“And everything I ask for becomes another thing you take away.”
The argument followed them to the car.
Now Emma stood outside it, arms wrapped around herself.
“Drive me home,” she said.
“No.”
Her face went still.
Adrian finally looked at her.
For one second, something in him tried to pull the word back.
But pride won.
“You wanted independence,” he said coldly. “Call a car.”
Emma blinked.
He saw humiliation replace anger.
That should have stopped him.
Instead, Adrian shifted into drive.
“Fine,” she whispered.
Her voice was so quiet he almost didn’t hear it.
“I’ll remember that.”
He drove away.
For the first ten minutes, rage kept his foot on the accelerator.
By the twentieth, silence began doing what Emma’s words could not.
It made him think.
He pictured her standing in the cold.
He pictured her expression.
He pictured the way her hand had instinctively reached for the passenger door before she stopped herself.
At 12:13 a.m., Adrian swore, made a violent U-turn, and called her.
Straight to voicemail.
He called again.
Nothing.
By the time he returned to Bellamy House, the front lot was empty.
Adrian got out.
The restaurant manager hurried toward him.
“Mr. Vale?”
“My wife.”
The man looked confused.
“She left.”
“With who?”
“I don’t know. I saw her waiting near the entrance. Then there was a car.”
Adrian’s chest tightened.
“What car?”
“A dark sedan, I think.”
“License plate?”
“I didn’t see it.”
Adrian grabbed his phone.
Emma’s location sharing had been turned off.
That was unusual.
He called her again.
Voicemail.
A pulse began beating hard beneath his jaw.
He called the house.
Their longtime housekeeper, Nora Bennett, answered sleepily.
“Mr. Vale?”
“Is Emma home?”
“No, sir.”
Adrian looked toward the black water beyond the road.
The anger disappeared.
“Call me the second she arrives.”
He drove every route between the restaurant and their home.
Twice.
Nothing.
At 1:26 a.m., Emma finally texted him.
I’m safe.
He pulled onto the shoulder so abruptly that the tires skidded.
He called.
No answer.
He typed.
May you like
Where are you?
(I know you're all very curious about the next part, so if you want to read more, please leave a "GRIPPING" comment below!) 👇
Related Stories
