Chapter 18
ALENA
Day three.
Apparently there's a point where worry rots into something uglier. It stops buzzing and starts settling in your bones like cold. I'd reached that point and then kept walking.
My flat looked like a crime scene where the only victim was my sanity. Broken glass glittered under the radiator. The sandwich he'd cut into stupid triangles sat fossilized on the counter like a memorial to good intentions. The wine bottle had bled down the wall and dried there, dark and sticky.
I stared at my phone.
"Okay," I said to it. "One more time."
I called.
Straight to voicemail.
Again.
Voicemail.
Again.
You get the picture.
On the third day without Drogo, your brain starts a little game called What Kind of Dead? It's delightful. Ten out of ten psychiatrists would recommend. Is he dead dead? Emotionally dead? Shot? Kidnapped? Or, fun option, perfectly fine and just decided to evaporate from my life like a gentleman.
I hit Lucy's name.
She answered on the second ring. "Babe, please tell me you've heard from him."
My stomach dropped. "You haven't either?"
"Nothing." Her voice was tight, scared. "Marcus has been calling since yesterday. Phone's dead or off. We went to his flat this morning—"
"You what?"
"We used the spare key. Place is empty, Alena. Bed made. No luggage. Like he just... fucking vanished."
My chest constricted. "He told me New York. Work trip."
"Yeah, he told Marcus the same. But babe—" She paused. "Marcus called his office. No one knew about any New York trip."
The floor tilted under me.
"We're coming over," Lucy said. "We're already in the car."
The line clicked off.
· · ·
Twenty minutes later, the door crashed open.
Marcus didn't knock. Didn't wait. Just stormed in like he owned the place, Lucy right behind him.
He stopped two steps inside and his face went dark. "Fuck, Alena."
"I know," I said.
"No, you don't." He crossed the room in three strides, grabbed my shoulders, eyes scanning me like he was checking for injuries. Pit-fighter instincts. Always looking for damage. "When did you last eat?"
"I don't—"
"When?"
"Yesterday. Maybe."
"Fuck." He let go, turned to Lucy. "Get her water. And food. Actual food, not wine."
Lucy moved immediately, no argument. That's how it worked with them—Marcus commanded, Lucy executed, both of them moving like a unit when shit got serious.
Marcus pulled me to the couch, sat me down. His hands were shaking. I'd never seen Marcus's hands shake.
"Three days," he said, voice low and dangerous. "Three days since anyone's heard from him. Phone's off. Flat's empty. No one at his firm knows about New York."
"He said—"
"I know what he said." Marcus ran a hand over his face. "He told me the same thing. Emergency client meeting. Be back in a few days. But I called every contact he's got in New York—no one's seen him. No meetings scheduled. Nothing."
Lucy returned with water and the fossilized sandwich. "Drink," she ordered, shoving the glass at me.
I drank. Tasted like nothing.
"Right," Lucy said, sitting on my other side, trapping me between them. "Let's talk this through proper. What exactly did he say before he left?"
"Emergency work trip. New York. Few days." My voice sounded hollow. "He... we had sex that night. First time. And then he left the next morning."
Marcus's jaw tightened. "Did he seem off? Scared? Distracted?"
I thought back. The way he'd held me. The way he'd said I love you. The note—wait for me please.
"He seemed..." I swallowed. "He seemed like he was saying goodbye."
"Fuck." Marcus stood, started pacing. Caged animal energy. "This doesn't make sense. Drogo doesn't just disappear. Not from us. Not from you."
"Unless something happened," Lucy said quietly. "Something bad."
"Don't," I whispered.
"Babe, we have to consider—"
"Don't say it."
Marcus stopped pacing, crouched in front of me. Eye level. Serious. "Listen to me. I've known that man since we were fifteen. Sleeping under bridges, fighting for scraps. He doesn't run. He doesn't hide. If he's not here, it's because he can't be."
"Or doesn't want to be," I said.
"No." Flat. Certain. "Not after what you two finally did. Not after seventeen years of dancing around each other. That man worships you, Alena. Always has."
"Then where is he?" My voice broke.
Silence.
Lucy grabbed my hand. "We're going to figure this out."
"How?"
Marcus's eyes went cold. Calculating. The look he got before a fight. "We start making calls. Real calls. Hospitals. Police. Anyone who might know something."
"The police won't do anything," Lucy said. "He's an adult. Been gone three days. They'll say give it time."
"Then we don't call police." Marcus pulled out his phone. "We call people who owe me favors. People who know things."
"What people?" I asked.
He looked at me. "People from the old days. Pit connections. Guys who know guys."
"Marcus—"
"I'm not letting this sit." His voice was steel. "Something's wrong. I feel it. And when I feel something, I'm usually fucking right."
Lucy nodded. "Right. I'll call round to his other mates. Anyone who might've seen him. Heard from him."
"I'll take hospitals," Marcus said. "Check accident reports. Anything in the last three days."
They were moving. Planning. Acting.
I just sat there, numb.
"Alena." Marcus crouched again, hands on my knees. "Look at me."
I did.
"We're family," he said. "The four of us. Since the bridge days. Since we had nothing but each other. And family doesn't abandon family. So either something happened to him—and we'll find him—or he's in trouble and can't reach out. Either way, we don't stop looking until we know."
Tears burned behind my eyes. "What if—"
"No what-ifs." He squeezed my knee. Hard. "We find him. We bring him home. That's it."
Lucy wrapped her arms around me from the side. "He's coming back, babe. He has to. Because if he doesn't, I'm going to kill him myself for putting us through this."
I laughed. It came out wet and broken.
Marcus stood, phone already to his ear. "Yeah, it's me. I need a favor..."
Lucy stayed pressed against me, her hand in mine.
And for the first time in three days, the quiet didn't feel quite so suffocating.
Because they were here.
Because we were family.
Because if Drogo was out there—hurt, lost, in trouble—we'd find him.
We had to.
The alternative was unthinkable.