EVANDER
── ? ──
The penthouse is too quiet.
I've been sitting in this chair for three hours, laptop open in front of me, pretending to review acquisition reports for Laurent Holdings while actually staring at the same paragraph over and over without comprehending a single word.
The chair across from me—the one I had moved in for her—is empty. The desk she used is clean. No scattered papers, no coffee mug with strawberry chapstick stains, no oversized sweater draped over the back.
Nothing.
Like she was never here at all.
Three nights. Almost seventy-two hours since she walked out that door into the freezing cold. Since she sent me that message—You didn't save me, Evander. You just bought me. And I will never forgive you—and then went completely silent.
I've called. Seventeen times. Every call goes straight to voicemail.
I've texted from four different numbers. All blocked within minutes.
I've checked the security feeds. She's avoiding every route that might bring her near me. Changed her schedule. Skips Macroeconomics—the only class we share. Takes the long way around campus to avoid the courtyard. Enters buildings through side doors and service entrances.
She's methodically, systematically erasing me from her daily existence.
And it's making me fucking insane.
My phone buzzes. I grab it immediately, hoping—
Marcus: Mrs. Calloway reports Liam's fever has fully resolved. No complications. He returned to school today.
Not her. Never her.
I throw the phone across the room. It hits the bookshelf and clatters to the floor, screen cracking in a spiderweb pattern.
The violence doesn't help. Nothing helps.
The penthouse feels like a tomb. My carefully controlled empire feels meaningless.
Every acquisition, every strategic move, every piece of the Laurent legacy I'm supposed to be building—all of it is background noise to the single, consuming thought that's been looping through my head for three days straight.
She left.
She actually fucking left.
I stand up abruptly. The chair rolls backward, hits the wall. I need to move. Need to do something. Need to stop sitting in this empty room waiting for her to come back.
She's not coming back. Not willingly. Not without force.
I grab my jacket. Leave the penthouse. Take the elevator down to the ground floor and step out into the sub-zero evening air, but the biting, freezing wind doesn't do anything to cool the rage simmering under my skin.
The campus bar is a ten-minute walk. Underground space beneath the student center, technically off-limits to alcohol but operated by an Elite family who pays enough to make the administration look the other way. Dark wood, dim lighting, the smell of expensive liquor and expensive people.
It's crowded tonight. Students packed in groups, voices rising with alcohol-fueled confidence, laughter that grates against my nerves like sandpaper.
I cut through the crowd without acknowledging anyone. They part automatically. No one stupid enough to get in my way when I look like this—jaw tight, eyes cold, hair wind-whipped, radiating violence barely held in check.
The bartender sees me coming. Has my bourbon poured and waiting by the time I reach the bar.
I down it in one swallow. Gesture for another.
"Rough week, Mr. Laurent?"
I don't respond. Just take the second glass and turn to survey the room.
That's when I see him. Inner Circle. Third-year. His family owns a chain of luxury hotels. He's standing near the pool table with a group of friends, laughing too loud, gesturing with a drink that's sloshing over the rim.
And he glances at me. Just a look. Casual. Nothing aggressive.
But there's something in his eyes. Amusement. Like he's heard about Aurora leaving and finds it entertaining that the Crown Prince got rejected.
The rage that's been simmering for three days erupts.
I cross the room in six strides. Grab him by the collar and slam him against the pool table hard enough to crack the felt.
The room goes silent.
"What the fuck—" he starts.
I don't let him finish. Just lean in close, my voice quiet and lethal. "Your family's hotels. How many properties?"
"I—what?"
"How many properties does your family own?" I repeat slowly. Precisely.
"Fifteen." His voice is shaking now. He's realized this isn't a joke. "Fifteen hotels across the East Coast."
"Fourteen," I correct. "As of this morning. Laurent Holdings just bought the flagship property in Manhattan. For significantly less than market value, considering your father was desperate to avoid foreclosure."
His face goes white.
"And we're going to keep buying." I tighten my grip on his collar. "Every property. Every asset. Every piece of your family's empire. We're going to dismantle it piece by piece until there's nothing left."
"Why?" The word comes out broken. Terrified.
"Because you looked at me wrong." I release him. He stumbles backward, catches himself on the pool table. "And because I can."
I turn and walk away. The crowd parts even faster this time. No one meets my eyes. No one says a word.
Back at the bar, my bourbon is waiting. I down it. Signal for another.
"Jesus Christ, Evander."
Tristan's voice. I don't turn around. Just wait for him to take the seat beside me.
"That was excessive," he continues. His tone is careful. Clinical. "Even for you."
"He looked at me."
"He glanced in your general direction." Tristan orders a scotch. "You just destroyed his family's livelihood because he committed the crime of existing in your line of sight."
"Your point?"
"My point is you're spiraling." He accepts his drink from the bartender. "You've been on a warpath for three days. Everyone on campus is walking on eggshells. You're making people nervous."
"Good."
Lucius appears on my other side, dropping into the seat with his usual careless grace. "Heard you just bought the Hastings flagship. Bold move. I thought we were staying away from hospitality."
"We are," I say flatly. "I'm selling it to a demolition company next week."
Lucius blinks. "You're... demolishing a hotel in Midtown Manhattan."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I can." I finish my bourbon. Signal for another. "And because his father's pain might improve my mood."
"It won't," Tristan says quietly. "Nothing will. Not until you deal with the actual problem."
"Which is?"
"Aurora Lane walked out on you three days ago." He says it simply. Directly. "And you're destroying everything around you because you can't accept that you lost control."
The muscle in my jaw tightens. "I haven't lost anything."
"Haven't you?" Tristan tilts his head. Studying me. "She's gone, Evander. Not physically—she's still on campus. But she's removed herself from your orbit. Changed her routine. Blocked your calls. Refuses to acknowledge your existence."
"She's running," I correct. "There's a difference."
"Is there?" Lucius leans back in his chair. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like she found your trap, figured out how it worked, and decided the cage wasn't worth staying in."
"She doesn't have a choice." My voice is cold. Controlled. "The debt still exists. Her father still owes me. Her brother's safety still depends on her cooperation."
"And she's calling your bluff." Tristan swirls his scotch. "Testing whether you'll actually hurt a seven-year-old child to get what you want."
"It's not a bluff."
"Isn't it?" His eyes bore into mine. "Would you actually call in those debts? Send her father to prison? Put her brother in foster care? Just because she won't come to your penthouse and organize files?"
I don't answer. Can't answer. Because the truth is complicated and ugly and I don't want to examine it too closely.
Yes, I'd call in the debts. Yes, I'd send her father to prison—the man deserves it for putting his hands on her. But Liam? Making a seven-year-old pay for his sister's defiance?
The thought makes something uncomfortable twist in my chest.
"You pushed too hard, Evander." Tristan sets his glass down. "You showed her the full scope of what you did. The photographs, the termination order, the scholarship manipulation. You stripped away any illusion that this was about protection or care. You proved it was always about control."
"It was about keeping her safe," I correct.
"By destroying her life first?" Lucius shakes his head. "That's some twisted logic, Laurent."
"She was already destroyed!" The words come out harsher than I intended. Louder. Several people nearby turn to look. I lower my voice. "She was trapped in poverty with an abusive alcoholic. Working herself to death for a future she couldn't afford. I gave her a way out."
"You gave her a trade," Tristan says quietly. "One cage for another. And then you expected her to be grateful."
"She should be grateful!" I'm standing now. Don't remember deciding to stand. "She's here. Safe. Away from that apartment and that life. Liam is safe. They have security they never would have had otherwise."
"At what cost?" Lucius's voice is softer than usual. Almost sympathetic. "Her autonomy? Her trust? Her ability to make her own choices?"
"Those are acceptable costs."
"To you," Tristan points out. "Not to her."
I sit back down. Heavily. The bourbon isn't helping. The violence isn't helping. Nothing is helping except the cold, hard certainty that I need her back.
"She's not broken," I say quietly. "She's just running. And I'm going to catch her."
"How?" Lucius asks. "You've already used every piece of leverage you have. The debt, the brother, the scholarship. She knows all of it. And she's still choosing to walk away."
"Then I'll use it harder." I pull out my phone—the replacement Marcus brought me after I destroyed the first one. "Make the consequences real instead of theoretical."
Tristan's hand shoots out. Grabs my wrist. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't do whatever you're about to do." His grip tightens. "You're not thinking clearly. You're angry and hurt and you're about to make a move you can't take back."