Chapter 25
Lincoln
I wait near the bar, swirling what’s left of my drink in one hand.
The ice clinks against the glass in a soft, rhythmic way that does nothing to soothe the restless tension coiling in my gut.
Isabel has been gone too long—she stepped away with Vera not long after we had one of the most passionate moments of my life, but now minutes have crawled by.
Ten, fifteen, maybe more. And neither Vera, Isabel, nor Trey, for that matter, has returned.
A knot of worry forms in my chest, tightening with every breath.
I lean against the marble counter, scanning the opulent room.
The music swirls in the background. Laughter bubbles up in distant corners, the hush of discreet conversations and the occasional moan from a couple too carried away to care about subtlety. But no sign of Isabel.
I check my phone for the fifth time in as many minutes. No messages, no calls. Blood pounds in my temples, an alarm bell telling me something’s off. I set my drink on the bar, the condensation leaving a slick ring. Then I push off from the counter and start weaving my way through the crowd.
I spot one of the club’s servers in a burgundy vest passing by, balancing a tray of elaborate cocktails.
I tap his shoulder to catch his attention.
“Excuse me,” I say, striving for polite.
“Have you seen a woman in a black dress? She might’ve been with someone in a gold gown, or a tall guy in a navy suit. ”
He blinks once, thinking. “I’m not sure, sir.” His gaze drifts nervously to the crowd. “All the women here look stunning in black or gold, and everyone’s dressed similarly. Perhaps you should check the next room?”
My patience frays. “Thanks,” I mutter and press on.
Trepidation churns in my gut as I zigzag between clusters of partygoers, murmuring apologies when I bump an elbow or step on a toe. Everyone seems too caught up in their own amusements—couples leaning in to share hush-hush words, or full-on making out in corners.
Eventually, I make it to a corridor near the side of the main lounge.
It’s the one that leads to the restrooms, if I recall correctly.
With a quick glance behind me, I notice Vera’s gold dress is nowhere in sight, nor is Trey’s suit or that signature grin of his.
My heart thuds. They’re missing, and so is Isabel. Not good.
Stepping into the corridor, I follow the subdued lighting to a door that could be the women’s restroom. My pulse kicks up as I knock. “Vera? Isabel?” I wait a beat, listening for any stir of movement inside.
No answer. I knock again, louder. A woman in a beaded mask steps out of the men’s room across the hall, giving me an odd look before gliding past. My anxiety spikes.
I test the handle. It gives, so I step inside, calling out softly, “Hello? Vera, Isa—” I swallow the rest of her name, my nerves shattered when I realize I’m all alone in here.
My skin prickles with goosebumps as a chill seeps into my bones. She’s gone, an insistent voice hammers in my head.
Stepping back into the hallway, I spot a side door that looks like it might lead deeper into the building or perhaps to a service corridor. It’s locked when I try the knob. Could she have gone out that way? My mind conjures up a dozen worst-case scenarios, and each one leaves me more unsettled.
I dig my phone from my pocket, swiping it open with fingers that shake. The ring of Dean’s phone feels painfully slow, but at least he picks up on the second ring.
“Lincoln?” he says, voice edged with tension. “I wasn’t expecting a call tonight. Everything okay?”
“No.” My voice cracks a little despite my attempt to remain calm. “It’s Isabel. She went off with Vera to the bathroom, and now she’s gone. Trey’s missing, too. Something’s off.”
A beat of silence. Then Dean curses under his breath. “Where the hell are you?”
“The club,” I say, trying not to let the panic show. “That fancy private event. The one we thought you arranged for us—remember?”
Dean’s confusion radiates through the phone. “Arranged for you? Lincoln, I didn’t arrange anything. I told you I’d do some digging, but I never specifically set up an invite.”
A wave of dread sweeps over me. “But the text invitation came from the club, referencing Devereaux. We assumed you and Devereaux pulled strings.”
Dean’s voice tightens. “I never authorized that. For all I know, Devereaux might have done this on his own—or someone else used his name. Dammit, Lincoln, this could be a trap.”
My heart plummets, all the puzzle pieces snapping into place far too late. The hours we spent here, trusting it was a safe infiltration, now feel like we’ve walked right into a lion’s den. “I’m worried something happened,” I rasp. “She’s nowhere to be found. Vera and Trey vanished, too.”
“Stay put,” Dean orders, a rare quiver of fear beneath his tone. “I’m on my way. I’ll bring backup. I’m calling Dev now. We’ll tear that place apart if we have to.”
My relief is immediate and overwhelming. Despite our rocky relationship lately, Dean’s protective streak is exactly what we need right now. “Hurry,” I manage before ending the call.
Clutching the phone, I stand in the hallway, every instinct screaming at me to do something—anything—to find her. A server with a tray of cocktails drifts by, and I practically corner him. “Have you seen my wife? Black dress, with a gold-dressed woman named Vera?”
He blinks, startled. “Sorry, sir, I can’t say I have.”
Agitation gnaws at me. “Check the side entrances, or the staff corridors. Maybe they went out for air. If you see her, or them, tell them I’m looking, all right?”
He nods hastily, stepping around me. I exhale, forcing my mounting panic into a tight box. Think, Lincoln. Where else could they have gone?
I retrace my steps toward the main lounge, scanning every face, ignoring the occasional flirtatious smile or questioning glance. My focus zeroes in on finding any clue that might lead me to Isabel. The shimmering lights and extravagant décor suddenly feel hostile, as though mocking my desperation.
I approach another group of people—two men and a woman standing near a velvet chaise—interrupting their conversation.
“Excuse me,” I say, voice taut. “Have you seen a woman in a black dress, about this tall?” I gesture roughly at my shoulder height.
“She might’ve been with another woman in gold, or a man in a navy suit. ”
They exchange glances, bemused. One of the men shrugs. “Sorry, buddy. There are a lot of black dresses and navy suits here. Maybe try the bar?”
I bite back a curse. “Thanks,” I mutter, pivoting away. The bar’s the first place I started. Time’s ticking, and every second feels like a further risk that Isabel is in danger.
Blood pounds in my ears as I make my way to the next group—a cluster of older couples perched on a set of tufted armchairs.
I plaster on a polite smile that feels painfully fake.
“Excuse me,” I begin, “I’m looking for my wife.
Black dress, dark hair, with a woman named Vera in gold.
Or possibly a guy named Trey. Ring any bells? ”
An elegant woman with silver-streaked hair purses her lips. “Hmm. We did see a blonde in gold heading toward the back corridors earlier, but we were a bit… preoccupied.” She glances coyly at the couple next to her, who exchange knowing smirks.
I quell the urge to snap at them and instead press, “Which way?”
She points a bejeweled hand toward a door draped with a velvet curtain, which presumably leads to some discreet area for more exclusive gatherings—or, as I now suspect, more nefarious doings.
“There,” she says. “But she wasn’t alone.
I think there were a few others, though I didn’t see who exactly. ”
Without waiting, I offer a terse “Thanks,” and hurry in the direction she indicated.
My heart’s beating like a war drum as I slip behind the velvet curtain.
The music muffles a bit, replaced by a hush that’s abruptly colder, emptier.
Low lights line a narrow corridor, though there’s a faint murmur of voices deeper within.
I pass two doors. One is locked when I test the handle, and from the other, soft laughter spills out.
Could be anyone. I grit my teeth, trying to decide which route to take first, when the door behind me abruptly opens and a couple stumbles out, giggling, their clothes slightly disheveled.
They barely spare me a glance before wandering off.
That leads me to wonder if every door here opens to some private little hideaway.
I move further down, determined to check each and every one if I have to.
At the end, there’s a T-junction: left or right.
I’m about to turn left when something in me warns to be systematic.
I phone Dean again, pulling the device to my ear as I stand there.
He picks up quickly—like he was expecting me.
“Any news?” Dean asks, his voice taut with tension.
“Not yet.” My pulse roars. “I’m in a back corridor behind a curtained doorway. This place is a damn labyrinth. Are you close?”
“Just arrived,” Dean says, and I can hear background noise—likely the commotion at the club’s main entrance. “I’ve got two guys with me from our security detail. Where exactly are you?”
I glance around, frustrated. “I’m near the main lounge, behind a velvet curtain that leads to some private area. Head in, keep an eye out for a corridor with low lights. That’s me.”
“All right, I see a guard up ahead,” Dean says, presumably to someone else on his side. Then into the phone: “We’ll find you. Don’t do anything stupid.”
I almost laugh at the irony. “No promises. Just hurry.” I end the call and slip the phone into my pocket, tension still raking through every muscle.