Owen sat on the cold sand, a half-empty bottle dangling from his fingers. The night wind carried salt and silence, brushing through his hair, but it couldn't quiet the storm in his chest.
When he learned that Lucas had announced the wedding would be delayed, he bolted to find her. He knew Lyra wasn't the type to wait around and be humiliated. But it was already too late.
Angry at himself, he muttered under his breath, "Damn it… I should've been faster."
A dry, bitter laugh escaped him. If only he had been there a few minutes sooner, he could have stopped this.
He took another slow sip before he let the bottle slipped from his hand, sinking into the wet sand as he leaned back, staring at the stars. They blurred, not because of the drink, but because remembering her still hurt too much.
Footsteps squelched through the damp sand, closing in fast.
Owen barely had time to react before Rowan grabbed him by the shirt and punched him square in the face.
"Where's my wife?!" Rowan's voice sliced through the night.
The impact dragging him out of his drunken haze. The metallic taste of blood spread across his tongue.
He didn't fight back. He just stared at Rowan, chest heaving, bewildered.
"What are you talking about?" he rasped.
"Don't play dumb! Where is she?" His voice was sharp.
Damian and Kane shot each other a doubtful look. Owen's expression didn't match the story, and the liquor bottles scattered around him made it seem like this wasn't his doing.
Kane stepped forward. "Boss, this isn't right."
"You're right," Damian admitted, eyes flicking to the bottles and Owen's stunned expression. "The evidence is unreliable."
"Either the two are lying or they've been given wrong information," he added, referring to the kidnappers they had caught at the abandoned warehouse earlier.
Rowan's glare didn't waver, but his mind raced. Something about Owen's expression, it didn't add up. He loosened his grip slightly and took a step back, trying to piece it together.
If it wasn't Owen, then where should he even start looking for Lyra? The question gnawed at him.
Just then, Damian's phone rang. Pulling it from his pocket, he saw it was a call from the Mistville Police Station and answered immediately.
"We found him, but Madam isn't here," he relayed.
Damian's fingers gripped the phone tighter as he listened to the voice on the other end. His eyes flicked to Rowan. "Boss, they traced the red car—it's in the Aldenridge village area!"
Rowan didn't waste a second. He sprinted toward the car parked at the roadside by the beach.
Kane and Damian close behind, their feet kicking up sand, leaving Owen sprawled on the ground, blinking dazedly, still tasting the metallic sting of blood.
He took time before he realized something. "Did they say Lyra's missing?"
He struggled to sit up, hands pressing against his spinning head. "Damn it!" he muttered, forcing himself to his feet and swayed unsteadily toward the car, the gritty sand scraping against his palms and knees.
"Aldenridge… Aldenridge… Alden… Aldo… Aldenridge?" he repeated, muttering to himself, trying not to forget the name.
…
Lyra sprawled unconscious on the small bed, her wedding gown rumpled and creased. Slowly, her eyes fluttered open.
"Where am I?" she murmured, dazed and slightly dizzy. She looked around. The room was small and suffocating, its dim light revealing dust floating in the air. There were no windows.
She gasped, remembering what had happened and scrambled to the door but it locked.
"Open the door!" she shouted, pounding on it with all her strength.
Outside the room, in the same building, a man exhaled a slow cloud of cigarette smoke. He sat on an old, four-legged bench at the far end of the corridor opposite from the room where Lyra was locked.
Through the small French window, he kept watch over the grounds, ready to spot any intruder who dared approach the abandoned house.
The loud banging on the door echoed through the hall, breaking his brief moment of silence. He didn't flinch. Nonchalantly, he stubbed his cigarette out on the floor, the ember hissing softly, then stretched and strode outside.
"She's awake," he called over his shoulder.
From the shadows, a woman crushed her cigarette under her heel, the sharp crunch breaking the quiet. She straightened, her heels clicking against the floor as she moved purposefully toward the room.
Lyra rifled through the room, tossing aside papers and small furniture, her eyes scanning every corner for something or anything that could unlock the door. Just then, her ears pricked at the sound of approaching footsteps, followed by the sharp click of the lock turning.
The door swung wide open, revealing the culprit. A woman with jet-black curls, red rose lips, and heavy makeup stepped in, clad in a leather coat and a tight-fitting outfit that left the upper half of her ample chest exposed.
Two men stood guard by the doorframe, rifles in hand, their massive frames leaning slightly against it
"Lyra Ashford," the woman said, her voice icy, brows slightly furrowed, making Lyra bristle with irritation.
Lyra's eyes narrowed. "Who are you people?" she asked cautiously, but the woman let out a low, derisive snort.
Then, without warning, her hand lashed out, striking Lyra hard across the face. The sharp crack filled the room. Lyra stumbled backward, bumping into the bed before collapsing onto it.
Yvette Windsor gripped Lyra's chin firmly, forcing her to meet her gaze.
'This woman…because of you, Rowan left me, and I became a laughingstock!' she hissed inwardly, refusing to voice it aloud as she found it embarrassing.
Everyone knew she was Rowan's 'lover', though no one realized it was just a contract of fake lover.
But since last night, she'd become the talk of her friends after failing to get Rowan to show up, and with her contract abruptly terminated, she had officially become the butt of everyone's jokes.