The Billionaire's Asset: Cashing Out Freedom

Claudius stared at the fractured phone screen, the spiderweb cracks distorting the image of the map. His reflection in the dark glass was fragmented, much like his current state of mind.

Hospital or Club?

Reason told him that he should go to the hospital, which is the cornerstone of the family.

But the image Quentin had painted-Dylan, his Dylan, in a room with other men-was a corrosive acid eating through his logic. It burned in his gut, a primal, possessive heat that defied all business sense. This wasn't jealousy. He told himself it wasn't jealousy. It was the fury of a CEO watching a critical, proprietary asset go rogue and risk total exposure. It was damage control. It was protecting the brand.

"Reroute," Claudius said, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating with suppressed violence.

Jensen, driving, looked in the mirror, his eyes widening slightly. "Sir? The hospital is-"

"Elysium," Claudius barked. "Now. We retrieve the asset before it compromises the entire operation."

Jensen slammed on the brakes. The heavy car lurched forward, the seatbelt locking tight against Claudius's chest. He spun the wheel, tires screeching as the Maybach pulled a violent U-turn across the double yellow lines, ignoring the blare of horns from oncoming traffic.

Jensen flipped a switch. A siren wailed, cutting through the traffic like a knife, clearing a path for the black beast of a car.

Claudius opened his iPad. He accessed the security schematics for Elysium. The Snyder Group owned forty percent of the holding company that owned the club. He watched the digital blueprints load, his finger hovering over the VIP sector.

He saw the hallway feed. He saw the closed door of the VIP suite. Two bouncers stood outside, arms crossed, looking bored.

He couldn't see inside. The camera feed for the room itself was blacked out.

The lack of data was maddening. Claudius gripped the edge of the tablet until his knuckles turned white. Unknown variables were unacceptable.

Claudius unbuttoned his collar. He felt like he was suffocating. The air in the car was perfectly climate-controlled, yet it felt thin, hot.

She was his wife. The papers weren't filed. The ink wasn't dry. Legally, morally, she was still his.

He remembered their wedding night. She had worn a backless dress then, too. She had been shy. Reserved. She had trembled when he touched her, her skin cool and soft under his fingertips.

And now? Now she was in a room with "pretty boys," playing games that Quentin Sharpe described with a lecherous sneer.

The car screeched to a halt at the back entrance of the club, the tires smoking against the asphalt.

The manager ran out, sweating, his cheap suit ill-fitting. "Mr. Snyder, we didn't expect-"

Claudius walked past him. He moved like a tank, unstoppable and lethal. The bass from the club thrummed in the pavement, vibrating up through the soles of his shoes.

"That room," the manager stammered, chasing him, struggling to keep up with Claudius's long, angry strides. "The client requested absolute privacy. We have a strict policy-"

Claudius stopped. He turned. His eyes were dead, void of any humanity, two chips of flint. The bouncers at the end of the hall saw him and instinctively took two steps back, lowering their eyes. They recognized a predator when they saw one.

"That client is my wife."

The manager turned pale, the blood draining from his face as if a plug had been pulled. He stepped back. He nodded frantically at the bouncers, who immediately unlocked the door and moved away from it, pressing themselves against the wall to avoid the coming storm.

Jensen followed, putting a finger to his lips, signaling absolute silence to the terrified staff.

Claudius reached the door. He could hear laughter inside. Music. The heavy thud of a beat that mocked his racing heart.

He didn't knock.

He pushed the handle down.