Kade POV
The ballroom of the St. Regis was a gilded cage, smelling of expensive perfume, old money, and the metallic tang of my own restraint snapping, thread by thread.
I stood at the edge of the dance floor, my body rigid, a weapon sheathed in a tuxedo. My eyes were locked on the woman in red. Isabelle. My wife. The woman who had vanished from my home, leaving behind nothing but cold sheets and a shattered reputation, was now here, spinning in the arms of a stranger.
Devon Walter.
I watched as he leaned in, whispering something that made the corners of Isabelle's lips curl upward. It wasn't the polite, terrified smile she used to give me during our rare dinners. It was genuine. Soft.
It felt like a knife twisting in my gut.
She looked radiant. Healthy. Alive. For days, I had imagined her suffering, regretting her decision to run. I had pictured her scared and alone. But she wasn't suffering. She was thriving. She had traded the safety of my protection for the arms of a nobody, a man whose family scraped for crumbs at the bottom of the food chain.
"She doesn't look like a grieving wife, does she?" Carla's voice was a silk ribbon wrapping around my throat, tightening with every word.
I didn't answer. I couldn't. The rage was a physical thing now, clawing at the back of my throat.
"Look at them," Carla continued, stepping closer until her arm brushed against mine. "They're whispering. Laughing. The Underboss of the Cameron family is standing right here, and his wife is acting like a debutante on the prowl. It's... embarrassing, Kade."
Embarrassing. The word struck a nerve that bypassed logic and went straight to the primitive part of my brain that demanded respect through blood.
"She thinks she's free," I said, my voice a low grind of gravel.
"Then show her she isn't," Carla purred. She turned to face me, her silver eyes gleaming with calculated malice. "Don't make a scene like a jealous husband. That's beneath you. Show her she doesn't matter. Show everyone that the Camerons don't beg for loyalty—we replace it."
She held out her hand again, a silent invitation to war.
I looked at Isabelle one last time. Devon's hand slid lower on her back, his fingers splaying over the red silk. That hand. I was going to cut it off.
But not yet.
I took Carla's hand. "Let's dance."
We swept onto the floor, cutting a path through the sea of black and white. The crowd parted for us, murmurs rippling through the room like a shockwave. I didn't look at them. I pulled Carla flush against me, my grip bordering on painful, but she didn't flinch. She smiled, resting her head near my shoulder, playing the part of the perfect, obedient consort.
The music shifted, the tempo increasing as the Master of Ceremonies announced the mixer—a game where partners were swapped at the whim of the spotlight.
I maneuvered us through the waltz, stalking my prey. Isabelle was passed from Devon to an elderly associate, then to a young Capo from the Chicago outfit. She moved with a fluidity I had never seen, her red dress swirling like a pool of blood around her ankles.
"She's enjoying it," Carla whispered against my ear, her breath hot. "Look at her. Passed from hand to hand. She looks like she belongs to everyone tonight. Is that the kind of woman you want back in your bed? A public spectacle?"
"Shut up, Carla," I warned, though I didn't push her away. Her poison was mixing with my own, creating a toxic clarity.
Isabelle wasn't just running. She was advertising her availability. She was spitting on my name, on the ring she had abandoned, on the vows that bound her to me until death.
You want to play games, Isabelle? Fine.
The music swelled to a crescendo. The chatter in the room died down as the overhead spotlights began their frantic search across the floor, hunting for the next pair to switch.
I tightened my hold on Carla, my eyes never leaving the back of Isabelle's neck. I willed her to turn around. I willed her to see the monster she had unleashed.
The music cut out abruptly.
Two beams of harsh white light slammed down from the ceiling, freezing the world in high contrast.
One spotlight trapped Isabelle. She was back in Devon Walter's arms, her chest heaving slightly, her face flushed.
The other spotlight hit me.
The silence that followed was absolute. The air was sucked out of the room, leaving a vacuum filled only with tension and the promise of violence. Across the expanse of polished wood, Isabelle slowly turned her head. Her eyes met mine.
The color drained from her face, leaving her as pale as a ghost. The smile vanished.
Good.
I released Carla, letting my arms drop to my sides, and took the first step toward the center of the floor. The game required a switch. And I was done waiting.
