37. Chapter Thirty Seven
Chapter Thirty Seven
Ren
Days later….
It’s been days since I went back to the studio. I needed to let my Thorn soak up the self-pity and self-hatred, to marinate in the stew of his own despair before I return to strip away whatever scraps of dignity he’s managed to cling to. He needs to be ripe for what’s next.
I glance at the portrait hanging in my office, a small, satisfied smile curling my lips. Byron’s eyes glare back at me from the canvas, a masterpiece painted in blood—literal blood, not pigment. His eyes burn with raw, unbridled anger and the pain I’ve so meticulously cultivated. The crimson strokes bleed into a chaotic swirl of dark shadows, capturing his torment. It hangs like a silent monument to my work, a reminder of my control.
Across from me, Mr. Bronson’s voice drones on, a low static in the background. He’s an abusive, steroid-pumped thug who thinks money can cleanse his sins. He wants to walk away with a slap on the wrist, and honestly? He will. That’s what I’m paid for. The rich keep my father’s firm alive, and their moral depravity keeps me entertained.
“Are you even listening?” Mr. Bronson snaps, his thick fingers drumming against my desk, his face reddened with frustration.
I tilt my head, allowing the practiced mask of civility to slip just a fraction. “Which part?” I ask, arching an eyebrow. “The one where you admit to beating your wife, or the one where you tell me how to do my job?”
His face contorts, veins bulging in his neck. “You arrogant son of a bitch,” he spits, leaning back in his chair with a sneer.
I brush an invisible speck of lint off my navy suit jacket, my movements slow, deliberate. “That I am,” I reply smoothly. “Because I’m good at what I do.” I motion between us with a flick of my finger. “And you wouldn’t be here if that weren’t the case.”
His nostrils flare, and I catch the faint, telltale residue of cocaine still clinging to his nose. Grabbing a tissue, I slide it across the desk toward him. “Maybe lay off the coke for a bit,” I suggest, my tone casual, almost amused. “And let me handle my job. Comply with the court order, the restraining order, and try not to make my life harder than it needs to be.”
The veins in his neck pulse, his steroid-enhanced rage barely contained. Snatching the tissue, he wipes his nose with a feigned air of dignity before tossing it aside. “Do what you have to do, but make this all go away.”
I smile at him with a slow, measured grin that I know will get under his skin. This isn’t going away—not the way he wants. I might be good at my job, but there’s a line even I won’t cross for scum like him. This is just theater. A stage to play my part and let him think he’s untouchable.
Sliding a manila folder toward him, I stand, signaling the end of our charade. “If there’s nothing else, then we’re done for today. I’ll see you at the next court date.”
He pushes back his chair with unnecessary force, snatching up the folder. “Sure,” he says mockingly, his tone dripping with disdain. “See you around, Sato.”
As the door slams shut, I press the intercom button. “Flores, when’s my next meeting?”
Her voice crackles through the line, punctuated by the sharp pop of gum. “Not until 1 p.m., but there’s a woman here to see you.”
I roll my eyes, the faintest twitch of annoyance breaking through. “What have I told you about chewing gum, Flores? Even with me, maintain professionalism.”
I don’t need to see her to know she’s rolling her eyes, probably twirling the phone cord around her fingers. “Got it, boss,” she replies flatly. “The woman says her name’s Sandra.”
Sandra. My interest piques. “Send her in.”
Moments later, a soft knock echoes through the room. “Come in,” I call, rising from my chair.
Flores steps inside first, her copper curls piled into a careless bun, her fitted black dress hugging her figure. But it’s Sandra who draws my attention. She steps into the office hesitantly, clutching her purse like a lifeline. Her floral dress is modest, her tan sandals worn, and her blonde hair falls loosely over her shoulders. She looks painfully out of place against the polished sterility of my office.
“Hi,” she murmurs, offering a timid wave.
“You can go, Flores. Thank you,” I say, catching the flicker of disdain in my assistant’s expression as she glances between Sandra and me before leaving.
“How can I help you? Is it Gabriela?” I ask, moving toward her. My voice is calm, collected—a mask of concern. “Please, sit.”
She smiles nervously and takes a seat, her movements stiff and deliberate. Her gaze darts around the office, barely landing on me.
“It’s Byron… and Gabriela,” she finally lets out in a shaky breath, her eyes locking with mine. “He’s missing, and I’m sure he’s probably dead somewhere. I don’t know—it’s just a feeling.” Her hand instinctively moves to her chest, as if clutching at some invisible tether that binds her to what’s mine.
“A feeling?” I repeat, my tone as neutral as I can manage while moving toward the cart that holds my coffee and water. The curiosity in my voice is carefully calculated.
“Yes,” she breathes. “We’ve been looking for him, but it’s all dead ends. And Gabriela…” Her voice catches, and she exhales sharply. “She’s not herself. All the grief—it’s getting to her. I think she needs you.” Her words hang in the air like a gift, and I bite the inside of my lip to suppress the smile threatening to spread. I hold back the total joy of hearing her say it.
Changing the subject quickly, I glance at her. “Would you like some water or coffee?” I ask, pouring myself a black coffee into the black mug. “Water is fine,” she murmurs.
I crouch slightly, opening the mini fridge beneath the cart. The cold air hits my face as I grab a spring water bottle, closing the door with my foot. I return to my desk, handing the bottle to her as I sip my coffee.
“Thank you,” she says, her voice small, almost fragile.
“You’re welcome,” I reply, unbuttoning the bottom of my suit jacket as I sit across from her. The leather chair creaks slightly beneath me. I take another slow sip of my coffee, savoring the moment. “So, how can I help?”
“You haven’t been by the diner,” she starts, her voice cracking slightly. “And I can’t find Byron.” She exhales deeply, her trembling fingers fumbling with the cap of her water bottle. “I honestly don’t know what to do to help her. She’s losing it.”
“All because of Byron?” I ask, leaning back slightly in my chair, my eyes narrowing in feigned concern.
Sandra dips her chin slowly, her lashes fluttering as she struggles to hold back tears. “What do you know that can help me find him? Or help her?” She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth, her hands fidgeting nervously with the strap of her purse. The tension rolls off her in waves.
“There’s something Gabriela doesn’t know,” she admits, her voice trembling. “And I can’t tell her. I promised him I wouldn’t, but…” Her voice falters, the weight of her secret threatening to crush her. “But she needs help—or maybe he does. I don’t know.”
I take another measured sip of coffee, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make her uncomfortable. “Go on,” I urge softly, my tone soothing. “You have my word—no one will know.”
Her eyes glisten with unshed tears as she finally speaks. “I caught Byron cheating on me… with my cousin.” The words tumble out of her, her shame palpable. Her gaze remains fixed on the bottle in her lap, avoiding mine entirely.
Inching forward, I rest a hand on the edge of my desk, feigning understanding. “It’s okay,” I say gently, my voice steady. “I won’t judge.”
She takes a shaky breath, her voice breaking as she continues. “He’s a man. I’m sure Byron is gay, or at least bi. But he hides it—he’s in complete denial. So, what if he was with a man?” Her voice cracks, her hands clutching at the bottle like it’s her lifeline. “I think he did something… or someone did something to him. I don’t know.”
Her pain is almost intoxicating, and I savor it for a moment, letting it fill the air between us. “I understand,” I say, careful to keep the excitement from creeping into my tone. “I’ll see what I can do. Gabriela needs space. I don’t know if reaching out to her is the best course of action right now.”
Sandra nods, her movements slow, deliberate. “She’s hardheaded—just like him,” she murmurs. “But I’m sure she would appreciate having you. She likes you a lot. She still talks so highly of you. That’s why I’m here.”
Her words are music to my ears, and I lean back, placing my coffee cup down with precision. “Listen,” I say, pulling a card from the edge of my desk. “Here’s my number. If you hear anything, don’t hesitate to reach out. I’ll do my best to help in any way I can.”
Sandra stands, clutching the card like it’s a golden ticket. She offers her hand, and I take it, my grip firm yet reassuring. “Thank you,” she says, her voice soft. “I need to get back home to my daughter, but… please help her.”
I nod, flashing her a practiced, polished smile. “No need to thank me,” I say, my voice calm, almost warm. “Have a great day, and thank you for confiding in me.”
She nods once more before turning and exiting the office, the door clicking shut behind her. I wait until the silence settles before grabbing my phone. With a swipe, I open the blue app displaying the live feed from the studio. My Thorn sleeps soundly, his body curled like a broken doll.
Perfect .