*Michael*
"I didn't have anything to do with your wife going missing, but I'm afraid I might know who is responsible,” Lucas’ voice rang out.
The room was thick with tension, and he stood before me—a portrait of guilt and trepidation. I could feel the cords of my neck straining as I fixed him with a glare that could wilt a rose.
"Lucas,” I said, as calmly as possible. “I need you to tell me what the hell is going on."
He stammered over his sentence, and my already frayed patience snapped under the weight of my anger.
My voice was a blade—sharp and lethal. I yelled, “My wife could be fucking injured, and she’s missing. Tell me what the fuck you know, NOW!” I tried to keep my distance because I was fighting every instinct I had to keep from slamming him against a wall.
