John interrupts the haze of my thoughts, informing me that the security cameras captured Layla heading out in a cab.

Normally, I would reprimand the security team for their negligence, but it's not the time for it now. All my focus is directed at finding her. I urgently demand to see the footage, noting a flicker of unease on John's face.

"Mr. Steele, considering your current state, I don't think it's a good idea for you to watch this video," he says nervously, raising my hackles instantly.

"What the hell do you mean, John?" I growl, my anger simmering beneath the surface. He rubs his neck anxiously and urges me to control my anger before showing me the footage.

I'm certain that a blood vessel bursts in my eyes the moment I watch the video. Blood rushes to my face, and I'm convinced smoke is billowing out of my ears, much like in the cartoons. Layla left the house wearing nothing but lingerie. She's probably flaunting my property to everyone, and the thought ignites a raging fire within me. I would gouge out the eyes of any man who dares to ogle her, and sever their hands if they dare to touch her.

I wonder where she's headed dressed like that, and I pray for my sanity—and her ass—that it's not to be with another man. I would kill him without hesitation if he even glances at her the way I do.

I don't realize how tightly I've been clutching John's phone until the screen cracks down the center. I thrust the phone back at him, demanding that he delete the footage. It's bad enough that he saw my girl in such a state; I won't allow anyone else to have access to a video of her barely dressed. John issues the order to delete the footage to someone else, but my attention is drawn away by the ringing of my phone.

It's an unknown number, and my gut tells me it's related to Layla. I answer, and Dante grates his voice through the receiver.

"Do you happen to have lost a possession, August? Specifically, someone who stands five foot two and is wearing a microscopic dress?" he tells me, fueling my anger.

"Just tell me where the fuck she is. Don’t play with me," I snarl, struggling to contain my rage at the mere thought of others seeing my Layla in that state.

"Well, she seems to be enjoying herself. Did you know she's into man buns? Terrible taste, if you ask me," he says, injecting a hint of humor that sends me into a frenzy.

"What the fuck are you implying?" I ask, fearing his response. I won't like the person I will become if his insinuation is true.

"I mean she's currently undoing some guy's man bun and playing with his hair. Do you think she wants to braid it or something? Women are into that shit," he says, laughing. I emit a primal scream, my breath coming out in uneven gasps. The thought of Layla in the arms of another man is a torment in itself.

"Where. The. Fuck. Is. She?" I growl each word like an animal, barely coherent.

"Relax, you'll do something you regret if you arrive in this state. She's at my downtown club, Red. If you want to remain the only man who's touched her, I suggest you hurry. Things are progressing rather quickly," he responds, and I don't need to be told twice. I swiftly get into my car and speed off, with John trailing closely behind.

As I race through the city streets, my heart pounds like a war drum, matching the urgency of my thoughts. Layla, in that vulnerable state, surrounded by strangers, and in a club owned by a man who has his own agenda, is a recipe for disaster. I've never felt such desperation and helplessness before. It's like a fire rages inside me, consuming everything in its path, leaving only a singular focus—rescuing Layla.

The neon lights of the club, Red, come into view, and I park the car hastily, not caring about proper parking procedures. John is right behind me, his eyes reflecting concern and fear.

48

August

I storm into the dimly lit club, my pulse echoing the heavy bass of the music. People dance, lost in their own worlds, but my focus is solely on finding her. Layla. The mere thought of her with someone else sends a surge of possessiveness through me, an intensity I have never experienced before.

As I push through the crowd, a mixture of anger and anxiety fuels my steps. Every beat of the music feels like a pounding reminder of what I might find. And then, there she is.

Layla stands amidst the pulsating lights, her laughter mingling with the chaotic ambiance of the club. Her eyes, those eyes that held mine with an intensity I couldn't forget, are now fixed on another man. My chest tightens, and I can't tear my gaze away from the sight that ignites a storm within me.

Her smile, the one I thought was reserved for me alone, is now directed at someone else. A dark cloud of jealousy overshadows my thoughts, and an instinctual need to reclaim what is mine surges through me.

With determination, I approach them, my steps steady and resolute. I see his hand on her waist and his lips on her; this sends a jolt of possessive anger through me. Without thinking, my hand shoots out, gripping his shoulder with a force that matches the turmoil inside me. I pull him back, a growl escaping my lips.

He stumbles, his surprise quickly turning into irritation. Our eyes lock, and I can't help but notice the defiance in his gaze. I hold him in my grip, my fingers digging into his flesh, lifting him off the ground. But my eyes never leave Layla's, even as she meets my gaze with a mixture of shock and defiance.

"Did you like his kiss?" I snarl, my voice laced with anger and a pain I can't deny.

Layla's response, the unapologetic admission that she had "loved it," strikes me like a blow to the gut. The surge of rage that follows is blinding, a white-hot fire that consumes reason and judgment.

I release the man, my hand transforming into a fist, striking blow after blow. The thud of my fists against his body is almost rhythmic, each hit a physical manifestation of the chaos that rages within me. The music, the laughter, the voices of the club-goers—all fade into the background as my entire world narrows down to the figure in front of me.

Layla's voice reaches me, distant and desperate. "August, stop!"

But I can't stop. Not now. The need to obliterate any trace of the threat, to prove that no one else can claim her attention, fuels my relentless assault. It takes the combined efforts of security and bystanders to pull me away, my chest heaving with exertion and the storm of emotions that have driven me to this point.