The moment I stepped through the grand double doors of my mansion, an eerie silence enveloped me. It was unusual, unnerving even. Every time I returned home, no matter how late or how enraged I had been, Peyton would always be there. I'd find her waiting for me, her eyes pleading, her voice soft and apologetic. Even after I hurt her, she would dress her wounds, swallow her pain, and stand there like some sacrificial lamb ready to beg for my forgiveness. And every time, the sight of her submissiveness would stoke my anger and guilt even further. But tonight... tonight was different.
The house felt empty, devoid of life. The air was thick with a foreboding sense of dread that clawed at my insides. My steps echoed through the marble halls as I moved, searching for any sign of her. My heart pounded in my chest, the memory of what I had done earlier flooding back with brutal clarity. I'd lashed out in a fit of rage, kicking her to the floor, spitting venomous words that I didn't fully mean. But I hadn't expected her to disappear.
The spot where I'd left her, crumpled and broken on the floor, was now spotless. No trace of blood, no evidence that she had ever been there. The servants must have cleaned it up, but where the hell was she? My mind raced with possibilities, each one more terrifying than the last. Had they taken her to the hospital? Was she hiding from me, too afraid to show herself?
"James!" I bellowed, my voice booming through the silence as I called for my butler. The man appeared almost instantly, his face pale and drawn, as if he had been dreading this moment. "Where is my wife?"
His eyes flickered with something I couldn't quite place—fear, perhaps, or guilt. But his voice remained steady as he answered. "I don't know, sir. After you left, we came to attend to her, but she was gone."
"Gone?" The word tasted bitter in my mouth. "What do you mean, gone? Where the hell could she have gone?"
"I'm not sure, sir," James said, his gaze dropping to the floor. "We found the room empty when we came in. We cleaned up, as per your instructions, but there was no sign of the madam."
"You're telling me you didn't see her leave?" I was losing patience, anger bubbling to the surface once more. The idea that Peyton could simply vanish was absurd. She had nowhere to go. No one to turn to. Not after everything I had done to isolate her.
"We didn't see anything, sir. As you know, we're not permitted to be around when..." He trailed off, the unspoken words hanging heavily in the air.
When I hurt her. That's what he meant. I clenched my fists, the realization that I had driven her away—truly driven her away this time—beginning to settle in.
"Check the security footage," I snapped, storming past him toward the study where the security monitors were kept. I had to know what had happened to her, where she had gone.
As the footage played, my eyes narrowed, scanning the screen for any sign of Peyton. And then I saw it. My heart stopped. There she was, crumpled and weak, being carried out by none other than Richard. My brother.
Rage surged through me, a blinding red haze clouding my vision. Richard had taken her. Why? To play the hero? To swoop in and save the day after I had done the dirty work?
I grabbed my phone, ready to call him, ready to demand answers. But before I could, the screen lit up with a call from my mother.
I hesitated for a split second before answering. "Mother?"
Her voice on the other end was frantic, almost hysterical. "Lucas! Oh God, Lucas! It's Richard..."
My blood ran cold at the tone in her voice. "What happened? Where is he?"
"He's at the hospital, Lucas. He's... he's been hurt."
"What?" The word tore from my throat, disbelief laced with fear. My brother, injured? How? "What happened, Mother? Tell me everything."
"Richard was speeding, trying to get Peyton to the hospital," she sobbed, her voice choked with tears. "But they were attacked on the way. Some men—they took Peyton. Richard... he's in critical condition."
The phone nearly slipped from my grasp as I tried to process her words. Peyton was gone. Taken. And Richard—my brother, my only brother—was fighting for his life because of me. Because of what I had done.
"What hospital?" I demanded, my voice hoarse.
"St. Andrews," she replied, her voice shaking. "Lucas, please hurry. The doctors... they don't know if he'll make it."
Without another word, I hung up the phone and stormed out of the room. My mind was a whirlwind of guilt, anger, and fear. I had lost control of everything—my wife, my brother, my life. All because of this twisted obsession, this need to dominate and control. Peyton had been the center of my world, and now she was gone, taken by God knows who.
The drive to the hospital felt like an eternity. Every second that passed was another second that Peyton was in danger, another second that Richard was slipping away. The guilt gnawed at me, a relentless beast that wouldn't be silenced. I had failed them both. I had let my anger, my possessiveness, destroy everything I cared about.
When I arrived at the hospital, my mother was already there, her face streaked with tears, her eyes red and swollen. She rushed to me the moment I walked through the doors.
"Lucas," she whispered, her voice trembling as she clung to me. "They're in surgery now. Richard... he's lost so much blood..."
I couldn't speak. The words lodged in my throat, strangling me. All I could do was nod, holding her close as the weight of everything came crashing down. I had done this. I had driven Peyton away, and in doing so, I had nearly killed my own brother.
"Why, Lucas?" she sobbed against my chest. "Why did this have to happen?"
Because I'm a monster. The thought echoed through my mind, a bitter truth that I could no longer deny. I had always thought I could control everything, everyone. But now, as I stood there in the sterile, cold hospital, waiting for news that could shatter what little remained of my world, I realized just how wrong I had been.
All the money, all the power—it meant nothing. I had let my own darkness consume me, and now, I was paying the price. My wife was gone, my brother was dying, and I was left standing in the ruins of the life I had destroyed with my own hands.
Hours passed like years, each moment dragging on, each breath a reminder of my failures. The doctor finally emerged, his expression grave.
"Mr. Hamilton," he began, and I knew from the look in his eyes that the news wasn't good.
"Is he... is Richard...?"
"He's stable, but just barely," the doctor said. "We've done all we can, but he's not out of the woods yet. The next 24 hours are critical."
I nodded, the words barely registering. Stable. Barely. Critical. It was all my fault.
"And your wife," the doctor continued, his tone gentler now, "we've contacted the authorities. They're doing everything they can to find her. But I need to prepare you, Mr. Hamilton... given the circumstances, it's possible that..."
He didn't finish, but he didn't have to. I knew what he was trying to say. That Peyton might not come back. That she might already be gone.
The weight of it all threatened to crush me. I staggered back, feeling my mother's hand grip my arm, anchoring me. But there was no comfort in it. No solace. Only the cold, hard truth of what I had done.
I had lost them both. And there was no one to blame but myself.