Chapter 274
Chapter 274:
The rain fell in a solid sheet, hammering against the windshield of the Maybach. The wipers were useless, thrashing back and forth against the deluge.
Dallas drove fast, but the traffic and the storm fought him at every turn. It took nearly two hours to reach the coastal road leading to the Hyde Estate — time enough for doubts to fester, time enough for the whiskey to sour in his gut.
His knuckles were white on the leather steering wheel. The alcohol buzzed through his system, blurring the edges of his vision, but his mind was locked onto a single destination.
Hyde Estate.
He parked on the shoulder of the road, concealed by overgrown trees. He didn’t drive up to the gate. He got out into the rain.
The cold water soaked him instantly, ruining his suit and plastering his hair flat against his forehead. He didn’t feel it.
𝗗𝗼𝘄𝗻𝗹𝗼𝗮𝗱𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗲 𝗣𝗗𝗙𝘀 𝗼𝗻
He moved through the mud, skirting the perimeter fence until he reached the side garden — the same garden from the photograph. He crept toward the house like a thief.
Inside the estate, in the warm, golden-lit kitchen, Anson checked his phone.
Target acquired. Sector 4.
His security team had spotted Dallas.
“Showtime,” Anson murmured. “She’s been home for hours, remember.” He turned to Suki and gave a quiet signal.
She stood at the kitchen island, wearing Eliza’s favorite oversized sweater — one Anson had kept for years. The heavy stage makeup had been scrubbed away. She looked fresh-faced. Innocent.
Anson reached for the dimmer switch and turned it up, flooding the kitchen with warm amber light. It transformed the room into a stage, perfectly visible through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows.
Dallas stood in the mud, rain dripping from his nose, and looked through the glass.
The whiskey, the rage, and his lingering fever formed a potent cocktail that blurred the edges of reason. He wasn’t seeing with his eyes anymore — he was seeing with the raw, gaping wound in his chest.
He saw her.
A woman stood at the kitchen island, laughing, cutting a piece of cake. She looked happy. Comfortable. At home. As if she had never been at the gallery. As if she had been here all along.
Push him away, Dallas pleaded silently. If he touches you, push him away.
Anson walked into the frame. He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, burying his face in her neck.
Suki didn’t push him away. She leaned back into him, then turned in his arms and fed him a piece of cake.
The distance, the rain, the emotional exhaustion — all of it conspired to conceal the subtle differences in Suki’s face. To Dallas, looking through a streaming pane of glass with his judgment clouded by betrayal and alcohol, it was his wife. The wife who had wept in his office about wanting to be free. The wife who swore she hated Anson.
Feeding him cake.
Anson lifted her onto the counter. Her legs wrapped around his waist.
It was intimate. It was revolting.