Page 27 of Shattered by Grace (The Locke Empire Duet #1)

Chapter Twenty-Two

J ustin dropped her off a few blocks from her front door, his bike roaring away as he disappeared into the night.

He didn’t even wait to see if she made it inside safely, leaving Victoria alone with her spiraling thoughts.

That gnawing feeling of being watched followed her, crawling up her spine like a constant shadow.

She scanned her surroundings, every flicker of movement, every parked car, making her nerves hum with unease.

Reaching the steps to her building, her eyes fell on a dark red rose resting on the concrete, just like before.

No note, no explanation. Her stomach twisted with dread, but she couldn’t dwell on it.

Justin had just bombarded her with enough information to make her head spin.

Tristan was a game she didn’t know how to play—he was toying with her emotions, leaving her questioning everything.

And Tyson? She hadn’t seen him in days, which only added to her growing anxiety.

Victoria stopped dead in her tracks, keys in hand, as she noticed her door was slightly cracked open.

What the fuck.

Her hands trembled as she carefully pushed the door further open, the weight of unease pressing against her ribs like a vice.

She had been on edge all night, the whisper of paranoia prickling at her mind.Her breath hitched as she stepped inside, dropping the rose on the floor like a forgotten thought

and scanned the space. Wood splinters littered the floor. A heavy boot print marred the surface, a violent signature of intrusion. Her stomach twisted into knots.

Who did this? She knew who ordered this, violating the fragile sense of security she had desperately clung to.

“Clawdia! Clawdia!” she called out, her voice tinged with panic.

The living room was a disaster. A lamp had been knocked over, its shade tilted at an odd angle.

Papers from her desk lay scattered across the floor like fallen leaves.

Cabinet doors hung open, their contents spilled haphazardly as if someone had been searching for something specific.

Something sharp clung to the room… cologne, sweat, and the ghost of the intruder’s presence.

Had she been reckless? She went back through the last year of being back in the city, thinking of all the risks she had taken. How had they found her?

“Clawdia?” she yelled again, tears rolling down her face.

Her heart pounded as panic took root in her chest. What if they killed her? She pressed a hand to her sternum, willing herself to breathe through the suffocating weight of fear.

Panic clawed at her throat as she spun, taking in the full extent of the damage. But then, the worst realization hit her. The pictures. Every single photograph of her and her father—gone. Not just tossed aside, not destroyed in the chaos. Taken.

Her chest tightened as the truth settled in. The Lockes. They weren’t just looking for money or valuables. They were confirming who she was.

Heart hammering, she reached for her phone, her fingers shaking as she dialed. But who was she calling? The police? Useless. How did she know they weren’t working with the Lockes? Justin? She didn’t trust him enough. Detective Adams? Straight to voicemail.

Where has he been?

Think, Victoria. THINK .

Her mind raced, but every option felt useless, swallowed by the crushing weight of fear.

Then, a sound. A faint creak from the bedroom.

"Clawdia, is that you?" She slowly moves into the bedroom.

Her pulse skyrocketed, and a cold sweat slicked her palms. She hadn't left a window open. She hadn’t even been in there since this morning. Are they still here? The question coiled around her throat, squeezing tight. Every instinct screamed at her to run, but where?

Slowly, she crept toward the door, every step a battle between caution and terror. Her bedroom door was ajar.

Drawers had been yanked open, their contents strewn across the floor. Clothes were everywhere, tossed and trampled. Her mattress had been flipped, the sheets discarded on the floor like a lifeless body. Her jewelry box lay shattered on the floor, its contents scattered except for one thing.

Her ruby necklace. The one her father gave her when she was younger. It was gone.

A note, placed carefully on her pillow, caught her eye. The edges were pristine, as if whoever left it had taken their time and wanted it to be seen. Dread crawled up her throat as she snatched it up, fingers tightening around the paper.

Her lungs constricted. The words felt like a noose tightening around her neck.

How long have they been watching? Weeks? Months? The apartment walls pressed in on her, the air suddenly too thin. She could almost feel eyes on her, even though she was alone. Wasn’t she?

She spun around, her back pressing against the wall, eyes darting around the room. Move. You have to move . But her legs wouldn’t cooperate. Fear held her captive, an iron grip around her limbs.

A faint meow reached her from under the bed. Relief flooded her as she pulled Clawdia into her arms, feeling the tremor in her tiny body. But relief quickly turned to dread as she scanned the wreckage. Something was wrong, really wrong.

She clutched Clawdia tighter, her mind racing. The gym had all her information. Her address, her name. They must’ve put it together. She wasn’t just some random girl. She was Victor Grace's daughter. The thought made her stomach lurch. If they knew, she was in more danger than she’d ever imagined.

Victoria dialed 911, her hands shaking as she tried to keep her voice steady. “Hi, I need to report a break-in."

The dispatcher on the other end asked if there were any damages and if anything was missing.

"Yes, there are damages to my apartment." A shudder rolled down her body. "A necklace and some old photos."

“An officer will be dispatched to your location,” the dispatcher said.

Victoria hung up, feeling a pang of frustration. She knew that the police might take a report, but if the Lockes were involved, she doubted they’d get far in investigating. The Lockes' reach made trusting the police feel almost pointless.

“Damn it,” she muttered, pacing the living room as panic clawed at her insides. She didn’t have Justin’s number. She couldn’t reach Tristan or Tyson. She was completely alone, and her safe space had been violated, turned upside down by people who clearly wanted something from her or worse.

What do I do? she thought frantically. Was she supposed to show up at work tomorrow and act like everything was fine? But nothing was fine. Her world had been ripped apart, and she was completely alone.

Victoria stood in the wreckage of what was once her apartment, the bitter sight of overturned furniture and shattered glass left a metallic taste in her mouth.

The cops had come and gone, their questions routine, their concern minimal.

Another break-in, another unsolved case in the city that never slept.

She exhaled sharply, hands on her hips as she surveyed the mess.

“Well, this is just fucking fantastic,” she muttered, stepping over the broken lamp that had once stood proudly beside her couch. “Nothing says ‘welcome back to New York’ like a home invasion.”

Grabbing a dustpan, she crouched down, sweeping up the shards of glass from the broken picture frames. Fragments of her carefully constructed life lay scattered around her, a cruel reminder that she was never truly safe.

As she worked, her mind refused to quiet. The rose. The note. The Lockes. Justin. Razer.

She threw a broken piece of wood across the room, watching it clatter against the floor. “What the hell is going on?”

Her pulse pounded as she continued cleaning, each movement sharp, fueled by the frustration and fear brewing inside her. She had spent the last ten years building a life, staying under the radar. And now, in less than a week, it was unraveling.

She sank onto the edge of the couch, rubbing her temples. “You should’ve never come back.”

But she knew that wasn’t an option.

When the living room was as clean as it was going to get, she hesitated before stepping toward her bedroom. A heavy weight settled in her stomach.

She pushed the door open.

Seeing that neatly made bed was overturned, her dresser drawers open and empty Victoria sighed. It wasn’t the mess that made her chest tighten. It was the single rose left on her pillow, its deep red petals stark against the white fabric.

After stuffing the last of the destruction into garbage bags, she let out a slow breath. The exhaustion from the day settled in, pressing against her bones like lead. She needed a shower, something to wash away the tension clinging to her like a second skin.

Victoria cranked the shower on, the hot water crashing against her skin in a sharp sting. The steam blurred the mirror, and she let the heat swallow her, hoping it would wash away the fear clinging to her. It didn’t.

She scrubbed at her skin, the rough washcloth scraping against her body with an urgency she couldn’t control, as if she could scrub away the sense of violation, the dread of being exposed. The water felt like it couldn’t cleanse her enough.

Her forehead pressed against the cool tiles, the scalding water mixing with tears she hadn’t realized had started to fall. Anxiety gnawed at her, her heart racing with each thought. The Lockes were close. Too close.

Sliding down the tile wall, she put her head in her hands and sat there crying until the water turned frigid.

She stood, shutting off the water, and lingered in the silence, her breath shallow, her mind racing.

“It’s time I go back to my father’s house,” she whispered, the need for answers driving her, no matter the danger.

Wrapping herself in a towel, she stared at her reflection in the fogged mirror, her eyes haunted. For a moment, she thought she saw movement behind her in the mist, a shadow that didn’t belong. But when she turned, there was nothing. Fuck.

Shaking it off, she trudged to her dresser and grabbed a simple nightdress, slipping it on before heading to her bed. She collapsed onto the side that was still sleepable. The second her head hit the pillow, sleep pulled her under.

Victoria’s mind began to blur the lines between reality and fantasy. Shadows of desire and uncertainty crept in, weaving a dream that felt all too real.

The cool silk sheets clung to her skin as she lay on the edge of wakefulness, the air thick with anticipation.

She felt the faintest touch, a pair of hands slowly running up her leg, tracing the delicate curve of her calf with featherlight strokes.

The sensation sent shivers rippling across her body, each caress both soothing and electrifying.

The hands were firm but gentle, gliding over her bare skin with a precision that made her breath hitch.

Warm, teasing kisses started at the top of her foot, trailing up in a line of fire along her calf and lingering on the sensitive skin of her inner thigh.

The intimacy was intoxicating, a magnetic pull drawing her deeper into the dream.

Her back arched involuntarily as her body responded, her mind fogged with the mix of pleasure and the thrill of the unknown. The heat, the touch…it all felt so real.

Just as the kisses grew closer to where her desire burned the most, a familiar voice murmured against her skin. Low, rough, and filled with wicked intent.

“Victoria.”

Her eyes fluttered open within the dream, startled. Even in the dream, she froze. Because it wasn’t Grace he said. It was Victoria .