I push inside. The workshop is quiet. The air smells like oil and dust. The lights hum overhead, casting long shadows across wooden floors.
“Ivy,” I say quietly.
No response.
I move fast and methodically, searching the shadows. The office nook. The back room.
Empty.
No overturned furniture. No marks on the floor. No sign of a struggle.
I stop in the center of the room and turn slowly, scanning again as if repetition might conjure something I missed.
But there’s nothing.
Shit.
My chest tightens.
This was the logical choice. The smart one. The place that made sense.
I chose it because I understand men like Silas. Because I know how they think. I trusted that knowledge.
And I was wrong.
The realization lands cold and absolute.
The room doesn’t echo with violence. It doesn’t offer proof, comfort, or even rage. It just exists.
This is what failure feels like. A quiet, devastating knot of certainty pits low in my stomach.
My hands curl into fists as I try not to crumble into pieces.
As hard as I try to fight it, my body wins out. I start to shake.
I let her down.
I stand there longer than I should, my breath shallow, my mind doing what it’s never been allowed to do before—imagining the possibility that I misjudged him entirely.
My chest tightens.I sent myself in the wrong direction.
I close my eyes, trying to regroup. Every second I spend here is a second she’s somewhere else. Alone. Terrified.
I swallow hard.
“No,” I mutter out loud. “You don’t get to break. Not here. Not now.”
Breaking won’t find her.
I force my breathing to steady.
Where else would he take her?
He wants to keep me unsettled. To keep me guessing.
My jaw tightens. This wasn’t a destination. It was a misdirection.
Think, Sebastian.
