Chapter 5 - The Architect of Regret
Back in Chicago, the penthouse was suffocatingly cold.
Cassian Veyer stood in the center of the vast, marble dining room, his silk tie loosened, his tuxedo jacket tossed carelessly over an armchair.
The two plates of roast lamb remained on the mahogany table, congealed and frozen under the crystal chandelier. The candles had long burned down to puddles of hardened wax on the linen runner.
On the silver charger plate where Eloan had sat rested two items:
Her platinum wedding band, catching the dull gray light of the afternoon sky.
And a folded piece of paper with twelve words that had haunted his thoughts for ten uninterrupted hours:
“You chose her. Now I choose myself.”
Cassian pressed his trembling fingers against his forehead, a migraine throbbing violently behind his eyes.
He had stayed at Sabine’s apartment until two in the morning, waiting for the private security team to inspect the perimeter. They had found nothing. No footprints in the mud, no tampered locks, no sign of any forced entry whatsoever.
Sabine had clung to his arm, sobbing into his chest, begging him to stay the night because she was terrified to be alone.
For the first time in six years, the sound of her crying had irritated him.
He had felt an uncharacteristic, clawing urgency to get back to his own home—to see Eloan, to look at the ultrasound picture again, to hold his wife and tell her that he was ready to be a father.
He had returned at three in the morning to find the penthouse dark, silent, and empty.
Her closet had been stripped of her winter coats, her passport was gone, and her private car was missing from its assigned bay in the underground garage.
The intercom on the wall chimed with a sharp, piercing buzz.
Cassian strode to the console and hit the button. “What is it?” he snapped.
“Mr. Veyer, there’s an urgent situation in the lobby,” his chief of private security reported, his voice tight with alarm. “The local police in Kenosha County just forwarded an incident report. There was an armed assault on Mrs. Veyer’s private cottage ninety minutes ago.”
Cassian’s heart slammed into his throat with the force of a speeding locomotive.
“What did you say?” he roared into the speaker.
“Multiple rounds fired into the residence, sir. The property was breached. Local authorities found shell casings, two blood trails on the gravel, and Mrs. Veyer’s sedan with its rear window shot out.”
The blood drained completely from Cassian’s face.
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“Where is she?” he choked out, his vision tunneling into blackness. “Where is my wife?”
“She wasn't there when the deputies arrived, sir,” the security chief answered, his tone heavy with dread. “She’s missing. And forensic evidence suggests she was taken by force.”
