Outside, Vincent headed straight toward his car.
He jerked open the driver's side door, climbed inside, and slammed it shut behind him. His hands closed around the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
For several seconds, he simply sat there, breathing heavily through his nose.
Then he started the engine.
The roar of the car shattered the silence of the night.
Without a second of hesitation, he pulled out and sped away.
A few moments later, Griffin rushed outside, climbed into his own vehicle, and followed close behind.
Vincent’s car rolled to a stop in front of Juliet's apartment building.
Before the engine had fully died, Vincent was already reaching for the door handle. He pushed the door open and stepped out, heading straight for the building without waiting for Griffin. His long strides were quick and purposeful, and the tight set of his jaw made it obvious that his patience had long since run out.
Griffin hurried after him.
Neither of them spoke as they entered the building and made their way up the stairs. The stairwell echoed with the sound of their footsteps, but Vincent barely noticed it. His thoughts were moving too fast, each one colliding with the next until they became impossible to separate.
Juliet had seen the video by now.
She had to have seen it.
Maybe she was furious and refusing to answer his calls. Maybe she was embarrassed and didn't know how to face him. Maybe she was upstairs right now waiting for an explanation. Whatever the reason, he needed to see her.
By the time he reached her floor, his heartbeat was thundering in his ears.
Then he stopped.
The apartment door stood wide open.
Vincent's steps faltered as his gaze fixed on the doorway. Something immediately felt wrong. The uneasy feeling that had been lingering in the back of his mind suddenly tightened around his chest, making it difficult to breathe.
Without realizing it, he slowed to a halt.
Griffin stopped beside him and followed his line of sight.
Neither man spoke.
For a long moment, Vincent simply stared at the open door before forcing himself forward. His hand reached out and pushed it wider, the hinges creaking softly in the silence.
The second he stepped inside, he froze.
The apartment was empty.
Not messy.
Not abandoned in a hurry.
Empty.
Every piece of furniture was gone. The decorations that had once made the place feel warm and lived-in had disappeared. The framed photographs Juliet loved, the plants she carefully lookedafter, the little decorations she used to scatter around every available surface—everything was gone.
The apartment looked cold and unfamiliar, stripped of every trace of the woman who had once filled it with life.
Vincent stood motionless in the middle of the living room, staring blankly ahead as his mind struggled to make sense of what he was seeing.
