WHAT THE VOWS DIDN'T SAY

The moment I stepped through the front door, I knew. The lights were off, but I could feel him. That stillness in the air-unnatural, heavy-pressed in like a storm waiting to break. It was always like this when Marcus Langford was angry. The silence wasn't empty; it was watching. I didn't call out. He wanted me to be afraid. I slid off my heels, careful not to let them click against the hardwood. My heartbeat filled the space instead, loud and uneven. The house was pristine, unnaturally so. Like a crime scene waiting for a body. I was starting to get terrified. And then... "Isla." His voice didn't need volume to shake me. I was expecting this but I still had the jump scare. I turned slowly, chin high even though I could feel the cold sweat on the back of my neck. He stood in the archway to the living room, half-lit by a single lamp, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a drink in hand. His eyes gleamed with something sharp beneath their polished blue surface. "You left early," he said. "I wasn't feeling well." "Strange," he murmured, stepping forward. "You looked perfectly healthy when Hale followed you outside." So he'd seen that. Of course he had. "I needed air. That's all." His jaw flexed. "Don't lie to me." "I'm not." I was. But not about that. Marcus's fingers tightened around his glass. "You forget what I did for your family. Everything I paid. Everything I cleaned up. And now my wife flirts with her boss in front of an entire room?" "That's not what happened." I kept my voice level. "Sebastian was checking on me, like any decent person would." "Oh, so now he's decent?" He hurled the glass at me. The glass shattered, shards raining across the hardwood like crystal hail. Shards flying everywhere, I barely flinched. He crossed the room in two strides and grabbed my wrist hard enough to bruise. I was yanked forward, the broken shards on the floor digging into my bare feet. He slammed my back into the wall. The breath left me. "You owe me," he said low. "Don't forget that." "I haven't," I whispered. "But you don't own me." His expression darkened. The first slap came quick, and I tasted blood. The second hit lower, grazing bone. I hit the floor. "Ungrateful bitch," he muttered above me. I didn't cry. I never did. Tears were gasoline to him-he burned brighter on them. He turned and walked away, muttering incoherently under his breath. Minutes passed. Or maybe hours. My cheek throbbed. My hip ached from where I'd landed. Then the couch creaked. I heard his footpals as he walked towards my direction. "I'm sorry," he said eventually, his voice softening like velvet over broken glass. "You make me crazy sometimes, that's all." His hand brushed my hair, smoothing it like I was something precious-ruined, but still his. "Come here, sweetheart." His hands reached for me, circling around my waist. I wanted to shove him off, I wanted to scream but I couldn't. I let him pull me into his lap. Because the last time I hadn't, he'd left me outside in the rain all night and told the staff I was visiting friends. And because I'd learned something worse than pain-disbelief. His arms coiled around me like rope. "You know I love you, right?" I didn't speak. That was the safest answer. He kissed my temple. "Next time, don't make me remind you. You're too beautiful to bruise." I stared past him, over his shoulder, and that's when I saw it. A slip of white beneath the edge of the rug. Crisp. Gold-embossed. I recognized it instantly. Sebastian Hale's business card. My blood ran cold. I hadn't dropped it. I'd left it tucked in a folder with the rest of the investor materials-sealed in my work bag. Marcus must've gone through it. He must've looked for it. My throat closed. I tilted my face to keep him from seeing the way my expression shifted. Because now I knew this wasn't about me leaving the gala early. It wasn't about a headache, or a boss being kind. It was about Marcus looking for something-someone-to destroy. He wasn't satisfied with destroying only me, he seemed to want to bring anyone down with me...anyone that tried offering me the comfort he couldn't give. He thought there was something between Sebastian and me. But there wasn't. Not even a hint. And still, that wouldn't matter. Because if Marcus believed there was-even believed I might look at another man-he wouldn't just come for me. He'd make an example of him. And that card, lying in plain sight, told me one thing. He was already planning how.