112. Trace
Trace
S he was gone.
The villa was too quiet. Her dress still on the floor, her glass half-full on the table. But the storm of her was missing. That wild, aching presence I felt in every goddamn room—even when she wasn’t in it.
I stood there for too long, staring at the closed door like it might open again. Like maybe she’d come walking back in with that fire in her eyes and some smartass comment about me needing to calm down.
But it stayed shut.
And I stayed fucked.
I don’t know what made me check her drawer. Maybe instinct. Maybe desperation. Maybe the kind of paranoia that starts creeping in when you know the universe’s favorite game is taking things from you the second you start to believe they’re yours.
Her things were still here—but she wasn’t. I checked her drawers anyway—like an idiot. Like maybe she’d left something. A clue. A goodbye. A reason.
But there was nothing.
Not even a scent.
Just the hollow echo of what used to be.
My fist slammed the edge of the dresser before I even felt it coming. Pain burst up my arm. I didn’t care. I needed it. Something real. Something sharp. Something I could feel that wasn’t the hollow ripping through my chest.
Scarlett fucking Monroe.
Of course she’d vanish like this. Not because she’s cruel—but because she’s chaos. Because when she’s afraid, she runs. And I should’ve seen it coming.
I did see it coming.
I just didn’t want to believe she’d do it again.
Zeke’s voice echoed in my head.
“She’s not a prisoner, Trace.”
No.
I knew better.
I knew Scarlett was a fucking earthquake in human form. And I loved her anyway.
And here he was—
The one who lied.
The one who followed orders.
The one who thought love could survive a half-truth if it was told gently enough.
The old me.
The one I buried the second she touched my hand and made me want to be better.
The door creaked open behind me.
“You looking for clues?” Rhett asked, voice low.
I didn’t turn around. “You already know.”
He stepped inside, letting the door click behind him. “Zeke tracked the plane.”
I exhaled hard. “No note. No message. Nothing.”
Rhett looked around the room—at the glass, the unmade silence. “That’s the message.”
I stared at the floor. “She’s been asking questions. Dreaming shit. Digging deeper than we wanted her to.”
“We handed her lies wrapped in half-truths,” Rhett said, crossing his arms. “And hoped she’d be too distracted to rip the seams.”
“She did.”
He nodded once. “She’s not running away. She’s running toward it.”
I ran a hand through my hair, pacing across the floor. “He’s not going to welcome her with open arms.”
“She knows that.”
“She thinks she’s ready.”
Rhett sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees. “She’s not ready. But she’s done waiting.”
My chest tightened. “She shouldn’t have gone alone.”
“She didn’t. Brielle went with her.”
“You think that makes me feel better?”
“No,” he said. “Didn’t think it would.”
I bit down hard, looked around one last time like something might magically appear and tell me how to fix this. But there was nothing left to find.
Just echoes of her.
“She’s walking into a storm,” I said. “And we lit the match.” I raked my hands down my face. “We find her. Even if she doesn’t want to be found.”
He met my eyes. Waiting. Grounded. Ready.
“She can hate me for it,” I said. “She can scream and burn the bridge. I don’t care. But I’ll be there—at the edge of whatever hell she just stepped into.”
A breath passed between us.
“She thinks the Order broke her,” I added, quieter now. “She hasn’t met the man who made her.”
Rhett’s gaze narrowed, voice quiet. “And if he tries to break her again?”
I looked away, my throat raw.
“Then I show him what it feels like to lose a daughter.”
I met his eyes. “We will.”
But now—
she was gone.
And all I could see was the man I used to be staring back at me—
the monster I swore I wouldn’t become again.