Page 87 of Under His Control

CHAPTER 35

ANATOLY

“We’ll get preliminary renderings by the end of Q2,” a voice says over the car speaker, tinny and overly confident. “We just need signoff from legal on the land use amendments. You’ll have the formal proposal in your inbox by tomorrow.”

“Make sure it’s clean,” I reply, voice flat and cold. “If I find any red tape buried in the fine print, I’ll sink the entire deal.”

Nervous laughter. A muffled “Yes, sir.”

Then the line goes dead.

Silence fills the car.

I grip the wheel tighter.

The meeting with the Scottsdale developers wasn’t on the schedule. I called it last minute, just to have something,anything,to focus on besides the hollow stretch of silence waiting back at the penthouse.

It needed to happen eventually. But tonight, it was a distraction. A reason not to sit in that quiet and wonder if I’d already pushed her too far.

The city bleeds light around me—Vegas in full sunset, wild and brilliant. Colors slash the skyline like spilled neon: lavender and scarlet, orange and green across black glass towers. The Bellagio fountains toss dancing ribbons of water, coinciding with music playing for people I’ll never know.

This town—my town—performs every hour like it’s fighting extinction. I used to love that. The hunger. The stakes.

Now I’d be willing to torch every casino to the ground if it meant finding her.

I check my phone again. Nothing. No missed calls. No texts.

I could have her tracked. I’ve done it before. I know the shortcuts, the digital fingerprints. But something stops me, something I dare to name.

Trust.

I’ve already broken it once.

But every second she’s out there, silent, feels like a wire tightening around my throat.

My tires screech as I make a sharp turn onto the private drive for theHospitium. The valet jumps when I throw the keys, but I don’t look back. My steps pound through the marble lobby, toward the express elevator only two people in this hotel have access to.

The doors part at the sixty-first floor.

The penthouse isn’t just empty.

It’s downright hollow.

A trace of her perfume lingers, but it’s faint, like it’s been chased out by something darker.

Taylor’s laughter should be echoing off these walls. Her bare feet should be padding across the Persian rug, arms wide, eager to greet me. She should be here, in her ridiculously sexy pajama shorts, nagging me for skipping dinner.

There’s nothing but a strange coldness.

I step into the living room and see Damas.

He’s standing on the balcony, one hand braced on the railing, the other cradling my whiskey. The sunset washes over him, casting blood-orange shadows across the skyline and his face.

I walk toward him slowly. “You’re trespassing.”

He doesn’t look at me. Just stares out at the city like it’s an old lover he never quite got over.

“You sound like your wife.”