CHAPTER 4: If Not Seymour, Then Who?

Cody Valtier’s POV

I stared at the clock on my desk. Seven ten. She was already gone.

Again.

Every evening at seven sharp, she walked out those doors like she didn’t have a care in the world. Like she wasn’t tearing my empire apart from the inside out. Like she hadn’t broken me into a million pieces four years ago and left me to bleed.

My jaw tightened until it ached. She thought I was blind. She thought I was stupid. That was fine. Let her think it. Let her get comfortable. Let her make the mistake of underestimating me.

I picked up my phone and dialed the number I knew by heart. He answered on the second ring.

“Sir.”

“Report,” I said. No greeting. No niceties. I didn’t pay him to be polite. I paid him to see what I couldn’t.

Silence on the other end. Then, “I followed her all week, sir. From the moment she left your building until she went inside her apartment. And…” He paused, like he didn’t want to say it. “There’s nothing. No contact. No meetings. No one goes near her except the woman who stays with her. And Flint Seymour — he’s not there. I checked the buildings around her. The coffee shops. The park. Every route she takes. There’s no trace of him at all. She doesn’t meet him. She doesn’t see him. He’s not in her life, sir.”

I stood up slowly. That was impossible. She was his spy. She left me for him. And chose him over me. All these years I’d hated him. All these years I’d prepared for war. And he wasn’t even there?

“Then who is she reporting to?” I growled, pacing behind my desk. “Who is she sneaking around with? Someone is pulling her strings. Find him.”

“Sir, there’s something else. Something I didn’t expect.” His voice shifted. Lower. Cautious. “I heard him. One night, I was positioned across the street, and the window was open. Clear as day. A little boy’s voice, loud and happy. He called out to her — ‘Mama.’ Plain as that. And then… two days ago, her friend and an older woman took the boy to the hospital. He was struggling to breathe, wheezing pretty bad. They stayed a few hours, then walked home together. He’s small. About four years old. Bright bluish-green eyes.”

I stopped pacing. My blood ran slow in my veins.

“The boy… calls her mama.”

“Yes, sir. Twyla is his mother. No question about it.”

My grip on the phone tightened until my knuckles turned white. A child. She had a child. Four years ago she left, and now there’s a little boy calling her mama.

“That’s impossible,” I muttered to myself. “She was alone when she left. There was no one. How…”

“I’m just telling you what I saw and heard, sir.”

“Keep watching her,” I said, my voice colder than steel. “Don’t let her out of your sight. Not for a second. And don’t be seen. If she knows you’re there, you’re done.”

I hung up before he could reply and threw the phone onto the leather sofa across the room. It didn’t break. I was almost disappointed.

I walked to the window and stared out at the city lights spread below me. Millions of people. And I couldn’t figure out the one standing right in front of me.

If she wasn’t with Seymour… if she wasn’t even seeing him… then who the hell was she running to every night?

The thought alone made my blood boil. I gripped the windowsill so hard the wood bit into my palms. Who?

I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t breathe at the idea of someone else touching her. Of some other man’s hands on her skin. Of him tasting her lips, knowing exactly how they felt against his. Of him hearing those soft, breathy moans that only I ever pulled from her throat. Of him whispering filthy things against her skin, claiming her like she was his.

She was mine, every inch of her, every sound and every secret. And the thought of anyone else marking her, touching her, claiming what belonged to me — it made me want to burn the whole damn city down.

I hated it. I hated the idea of another man’s scent on her. Of him leaving his marks on her body where only mine should be. Of him waking up beside her, holding her, loving her like I used to. It made me sick. It made me furious. And I would find out who he is. I would tear him apart. No one touches what’s mine. No one.

And when did she get a son? Who was the father? Why the f*ck hadn’t she mentioned a single thing about it? I gripped the edge of the desk so hard my fingers ached. Twyla Nightveil, what the f*ck are you hiding?

Seymour wasn’t there. The man I’d hated for four years — the man I thought had stolen her from me — didn’t even exist in her daily life. So what was she protecting? Who was she protecting? And why did she leave me if not for him?

The questions burned through me. She wasn’t just a traitor. She was a puzzle. And I was going to solve every single piece of it. I didn’t care what it took. I didn’t care what it cost. She walked out on me once. But I had her back now. And I wasn’t letting her go until I had every answer.

Every lie, every secret, every d*mn thing.

And when I find out who he is? When I find out who dared to touch what belongs to me? He will regret the day he was ever born.

D*mn, I suddenly remembered the sweet taste of her lips. I fucking hated how my eyes always darted to that small mark on her lip. There was no way she didn’t know it came from my bite. Her scent was addictive. I could never get enough of it. Even now, I still couldn’t control myself when it came to her.

My body reacted to her with terrifying possessiveness. She had no idea how badly I suffered after she left me alone in that car. I was so stupid, so weak. I broke the moment I heard her sob, the moment she cried and begged. I won’t waste four years of anger I built up against her. I tried so hard to carve every last bit of love from my heart.

I promised myself I’d ruin her to pieces, exactly like she did to me. I’d make sure she came crawling back, begging for me. That’s why I’m keeping her close, to watch every step, every breath, every move she makes. She won’t do a single thing without me knowing. But f*ck, I still have to fight back the weakness that hits me every time her skin brushes against mine.

How I hope she doesn’t notice me watching her like a starving man. And then the worst thought hits me—am I only punishing myself by doing this?