Chapter 4

Raymond's POV

The heavy canvas of the punching bag absorbed the impact with a muffled, satisfying crack, but it wasn't enough. It was never enough.

I threw another right hook, the force of it shuddering up my arm, followed by a vicious left jab that tore the skin off my already bleeding knuckles. The pain was sharp, grounding, but it did nothing to extinguish the roaring inferno in my chest.

It was 4:00 AM. The penthouse gym was silent except for the harsh, ragged sound of my own breathing. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city was a sprawling grid of indifferent lights, oblivious to the fact that I was slowly losing my mind.

I stepped back from the bag, chest heaving, sweat dripping from my jaw onto the rubber mat below. I stripped off my hand wraps, ignoring the smear of crimson on the white fabric. My hands were shaking. Not from exhaustion, but from a terrifying, adrenaline-fueled rage that had been boiling in my veins since the gala.

Clara.

Just the thought of her name felt like a prayer and a curse. I walked over to the bench, picking up a towel and wiping my face, but my mind was completely consumed by the ghost of her touch. When I had pressed that glass of water into her hand, I had felt the delicate, frantic flutter of her pulse against my fingertips. She was terrified. She was vibrating with a deep, ingrained fear that no woman should ever have to carry.

And she was magnificent.

She thought she was hiding it. She thought the slightly oversized black dress and her downcast eyes made her invisible, but to me, she was the only source of gravity in that entire, suffocating room. I had watched the way she moved, the soft, agonizingly beautiful curve of her hips, the full pout of her lips that she chewed on when she was anxious. She was a goddess drowning in a puddle, and the man holding her head underwater was on my payroll.

A low, primal growl tore its way up my throat. I grabbed a glass tumbler from the small bar in the corner of the gym and hurled it at the brick wall. It shattered into a thousand glittering pieces, the violent sound echoing through the cavernous room.

Mark Andrews.

I closed my eyes, summoning the image of him grabbing her arm. The way his fingers had dug into her soft skin. The possessive, disgusting sneer on his face when he dragged her away from me. I had stood there on the terrace, bathed in moonlight, forcing every single muscle in my body to remain perfectly still. If I had moved, if I had let the leash slip even a fraction of an inch, I would have killed him right there in front of a hundred witnesses. I would have torn him apart with my bare hands and bathed in the ruin of him.

But I was a patient man. You don’t build an empire by acting on impulse. You build it by identifying the structural weaknesses of your enemies and meticulously, quietly dismantling them until the building collapses on its own.

I walked into the master bathroom and stepped under the freezing spray of the shower. I needed to wash the scent of violence off me. I needed to put the bespoke suit back on, tie the silk knot at my throat, and play the role of the cold, untouchable CEO.

Because today, I was going to war.

By 7:30 AM, I was seated behind the massive mahogany desk in my corner office. The world outside my window was waking up, but I had been operating in the dark for hours. I couldn't get her out of my head. The scent of her, a subtle, intoxicating mix of vanilla and something uniquely, inherently her, seemed to cling to the very air I breathed.

I reached forward and tapped the screen of my private, encrypted tablet. I didn't open the quarterly earnings report. I didn't open the merger documents. I opened the security feed from the gala.

I fast-forwarded to the terrace. I watched the black-and-white footage of her stepping out into the night air. I paused it on her face. Even through the grainy resolution of the security camera, I could see the profound sadness in her eyes. I reached out, my calloused fingertip tracing the pixelate curve of her cheek on the glass screen.

Why do you let him dim your light, Clara? I thought, a heavy, agonizing ache settling in my chest. What lies has he told you to make you think you deserve the dark?

A soft knock at the door broke my concentration. I minimized the window instantly, the mask of the ruthless billionaire slipping perfectly into place.

"Enter," I commanded, my voice devoid of any warmth.

Elias, my Head of Security and the man who handled the things that didn't appear on corporate ledgers stepped into the room. He was a quiet, imposing man who asked no questions and left no traces.

"Good morning, Mr. Thorne," Elias said, placing a thick, black manila folder on the center of my desk.

"Is this everything?" I asked, my eyes fixed on the folder as if it were a venomous snake.

"Everything," Elias confirmed, his tone perfectly neutral. "Mark Andrews. Ten years of financial records, private communications, offshore accounts, and current corporate routing. He’s ambitious, sir. Up for the Regional Director spot next month. But he’s sloppy."

"Sloppy how?" I leaned back in my leather chair, steepling my fingers.

"He lives above his means. Massive credit debt that he hides from his wife. And he has a temper. I pulled the HR reports from his previous firm. Three complaints of verbal hostility, all buried by his former manager."

My jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached. If he was hostile at work, I didn't need an imagination to know what he was like behind closed doors with a woman who had zero financial independence.

"Where is he right now?" I asked, my voice dropping to a dangerous, silken whisper.

"He scanned into the building ten minutes ago. He’s in the breakroom on the 42nd floor."

I stood up slowly, adjusting the cuffs of my suit. "Keep digging, Elias. I want to know what he breathes. I want to know what he fears. I want every single vulnerability exposed."

"Yes, sir," Elias said, turning to leave. He paused at the door, glancing back. "There is one more thing, sir. It’s in the secondary file. Regarding his corporate expense account."

I didn't answer. I just picked up the folder and flipped it open.

There it was. A neat, list of charges. Dinners at restaurants Clara would never see. Expensive jewelry shipped to an address that wasn't theirs. And a recurring, weekly charge at The Orion Hotel.

A dark, slow smile spread across my face. It wasn't a smile of joy; it was the baring of teeth. Mark Andrews wasn't just breaking his wife’s spirit; he was actively betraying her.

He had handed me the absolute perfect weapon.

If I walked into Clara’s life and offered her an escape, her trauma and her shattered self-esteem would make her run away from me. She didn't believe she was worthy of being saved. But if I showed her the truth? If I shattered the illusion of her marriage completely, she wouldn't have a choice but to open her eyes.

I stared at the file wondering how I was going to break this news to her. Maybe if she saw what her husband was doing outside, maybe, just maybe she will leave him and I will finally get the chance to treat her like the queen she deserves. 

I walked out of my office and took the private elevator down to the 42nd floor. The doors slid open, and I walked down the glass corridor. There he was. Mark Vance, standing by the coffee machine, laughing loudly at a joke, looking immaculate and untouched.

I stopped walking, standing in the shadow of the hallway, watching the man whose life I was about to systematically destroy because I was going after his wife and I will definitely get her if she will have me.

Laugh while you can, Mark, I thought, the cold, lethal calm finally settling over the raging fire in my chest. I took out my phone and called my companies HR. The

line rang for 3 seconds before it was picked “Get to my office, now” I ordered.