Damien Sinclair stood in the center of the living room, staring at his phone like it was a bomb that had failed to detonate.
He was shirtless, wearing only grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips. His hair was a mess from running his hands through it a dozen times in the last hour.
It was 2:00 AM.
He had tried to give her space. He knew she needed to blow off steam after the weeks she'd had, and he refused to be the controlling husband who put a curfew on his wife. But when midnight came and went without a text, and then 1:00 AM passed with her calls going straight to voicemail, his restraint had snapped.
To make matters worse, Kai—his so-called eyes on the ground—wasn't picking up either.
The line connected to Aria's driver and bodyguard's phone.
He didn't hear a voice immediately. He heard the thumping bass of the club, the roar of a drunken crowd, and the rustle of movement as the phone was handed over.
