Page 55 of Taking What's Mine

Eventually, I make it to a corridor near the side of the main lounge. It’s the one that leads to the restrooms, if I recall correctly. With a quick glance behind me, I notice Vera’s gold dress is nowhere in sight, nor is Trey’s suit or that signature grin of his. My heart thuds. They’re missing, and so is Isabel. Not good.

Stepping into the corridor, I follow the subdued lighting to a door that could be the women’s restroom. My pulse kicks up as I knock. “Vera? Isabel?” I wait a beat, listening for any stir of movement inside.

No answer. I knock again, louder. A woman in a beaded mask steps out of the men’s room across the hall, giving me an odd look before gliding past. My anxiety spikes.

I test the handle. It gives, so I step inside, calling out softly, “Hello? Vera, Isa—” I swallow the rest of her name, my nerves shattered when I realize I’m all alone in here.

My skin prickles with goosebumps as a chill seeps into my bones.She’s gone,an insistent voice hammers in my head.

Stepping back into the hallway, I spot a side door that looks like it might lead deeper into the building or perhaps to a service corridor. It’s locked when I try the knob. Could she have gone out that way? My mind conjures up a dozen worst-case scenarios, and each one leaves me more unsettled.

I dig my phone from my pocket, swiping it open with fingers that shake. The ring of Dean’s phone feels painfully slow, but at least he picks up on the second ring.

“Lincoln?” he says, voice edged with tension. “I wasn’t expecting a call tonight. Everything okay?”

“No.” My voice cracks a little despite my attempt to remain calm. “It’s Isabel. She went off with Vera to the bathroom, and now she’s gone. Trey’s missing, too. Something’s off.”

A beat of silence. Then Dean curses under his breath. “Where the hell are you?”

“The club,” I say, trying not to let the panic show. “That fancy private event. The one we thought you arranged for us—remember?”

Dean’s confusion radiates through the phone. “Arranged for you? Lincoln, I didn’t arrange anything. I told you I’d do some digging, but I never specifically set up an invite.”

A wave of dread sweeps over me. “But the text invitation came from the club, referencing Devereaux. We assumed you and Devereaux pulled strings.”

Dean’s voice tightens. “I never authorized that. For all I know, Devereaux might have done this on his own—or someone else used his name. Dammit, Lincoln, this could be a trap.”

My heart plummets, all the puzzle pieces snapping into place far too late. The hours we spent here, trusting it was a safe infiltration, now feel like we’ve walked right into a lion’s den. “I’m worried something happened,” I rasp. “She’s nowhere to be found. Vera and Trey vanished, too.”

“Stay put,” Dean orders, a rare quiver of fear beneath his tone. “I’m on my way. I’ll bring backup. I’m calling Dev now. We’ll tear that place apart if we have to.”

My relief is immediate and overwhelming. Despite our rocky relationship lately, Dean’s protective streak is exactly what we need right now. “Hurry,” I manage before ending the call.

Clutching the phone, I stand in the hallway, every instinct screaming at me to do something—anything—to find her. A server with a tray of cocktails drifts by, and I practically corner him. “Have you seen my wife? Black dress, with a gold-dressed woman named Vera?”

He blinks, startled. “Sorry, sir, I can’t say I have.”

Agitation gnaws at me. “Check the side entrances, or the staff corridors. Maybe they went out for air. If you see her, or them, tell them I’m looking, all right?”

He nods hastily, stepping around me. I exhale, forcing my mounting panic into a tight box. Think, Lincoln. Where else could they have gone?

I retrace my steps toward the main lounge, scanning every face, ignoring the occasional flirtatious smile or questioning glance. My focus zeroes in on finding any clue that might lead me to Isabel. The shimmering lights and extravagant décor suddenly feel hostile, as though mocking my desperation.

I approach another group of people—two men and a woman standing near a velvet chaise—interrupting their conversation. “Excuse me,” I say, voice taut. “Have you seen a woman in a black dress, about this tall?” I gesture roughly at my shoulder height. “She might’ve been with another woman in gold, or a man in a navy suit.”

They exchange glances, bemused. One of the men shrugs. “Sorry, buddy. There are a lot of black dresses and navy suits here. Maybe try the bar?”

I bite back a curse. “Thanks,” I mutter, pivoting away. The bar’s the first place I started. Time’s ticking, and every second feels like a further risk that Isabel is in danger.

Blood pounds in my ears as I make my way to the next group—a cluster of older couples perched on a set of tufted armchairs. I plaster on a polite smile that feels painfully fake. “Excuse me,” I begin, “I’m looking for my wife. Black dress, dark hair, with a woman named Vera in gold. Or possibly a guy named Trey. Ring any bells?”

An elegant woman with silver-streaked hair purses her lips. “Hmm. We did see a blonde in gold heading toward the back corridors earlier, but we were a bit… preoccupied.” She glances coyly at the couple next to her, who exchange knowing smirks.

I quell the urge to snap at them and instead press, “Which way?”

She points a bejeweled hand toward a door draped with a velvet curtain, which presumably leads to some discreet area for more exclusive gatherings—or, as I now suspect, more nefarious doings. “There,” she says. “But she wasn’t alone. I think there were a few others, though I didn’t see who exactly.”

Without waiting, I offer a terse “Thanks,” and hurry in the direction she indicated. My heart’s beating like a war drum as I slip behind the velvet curtain. The music muffles a bit, replaced by a hush that’s abruptly colder, emptier. Low lights line a narrow corridor, though there’s a faint murmur of voices deeper within.

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