Chapter 21 – The Morning After Theft
Sunlight stabbed through the blinds like it had a personal vendetta against him. Devon groaned, rolling over with a lazy smirk, hand reaching out for the warm body of Spice — the girl from last night.
Nothing.
His fingers met nothing but cold, wrinkled sheets.
He blinked, squinting at the empty side of the bed. No heels on the floor. No perfume lingering in the air. Even the faint smell of her strawberry lip gloss was gone.
Weird.
Slowly, the pieces started falling into place, and the pit in his stomach grew heavier.
Devon sat up, rubbing his temples. That's when he saw it — his phone sitting neatly on the nightstand. And beside it, a small folded note with handwriting that screamed I'm not sorry.
He picked it up.
"You were lucky I was feeling generous. And why the hell is Quinn calling you 107 times? Is she your wife?"
His eyes widened. One hundred and seven? What in the—
He instinctively patted his pockets for his keys. Gone. Checked the chair for his wallet. Gone. He even opened the drawer — nothing.
His stomach dropped.
"Oh, hell no… I got robbed."
The worst part? He knew exactly how it happened. The drink she poured him… that cheeky grin when he started feeling dizzy… he'd thought it was flirting. Nope. That was felon energy.
He checked his phone again. Missed call after missed call. Quinn's name plastered down his screen like a telemarketer on steroids.
"Quinn, what the hell did you get yourself into this time?" he muttered.
And then it hit him — he'd snubbed her yesterday. Brushed her off like she was overreacting. And now? Now she was calling him like her life depended on it.
"Great," he said aloud, dragging yesterday's crumpled shirt over his head. "I deserve this. Universe: one. Devon: zero."
No breakfast. No plan. No dignity. He shoved his shoes on, raked his fingers through his hair like it would magically erase last night's mistake, and bolted out the door.
Whatever mess Quinn was in, it had to be bad.
And with 107 missed calls, he wasn't walking into just any mess…
He was running straight into hell.
Devon took the stairs three at a time, nearly tripping over a maid's mop bucket.
"Move, move—!" he barked, dodging around a breakfast cart piled with croissants that smelled way too happy for the hell his morning had become.
The lobby was buzzing — tourists clinking coffee mugs, a guy in flip-flops arguing over his bill — and here came Devon, shirt half-buttoned, hair still stuck in last night's mess, clutching his phone like it was evidence in a murder trial.
107 missed calls from Quinn.
One hundred. And seven.
"Either she's dying or she started a cooking show and really needs me to tune in…" he muttered, stalking toward the reception desk.
He slammed his palm down. "Hey. Have you seen a woman come out of here in the last few hours? Tall, dangerous, legs for days, nails that could gut a man?"
The receptionist blinked. "Uh… no?"
"No? NO? You're telling me a woman who looks like sin on a Sunday just vanished?"
"Sir—"
"I've been robbed!" His voice bounced across the lobby, making a guy drop his complimentary muffin.
Before the receptionist could ask how much or by who, the television above the desk blared:
BREAKING NEWS.
The camera cut to a field reporter standing in front of what looked like the gates of hell — smoke, twisted metal, and the flashing red wash of ambulance lights.
> "Authorities confirm a massacre overnight at Lily Estate. Sources say nearly every resident is dead after a coordinated attack involving gunfire, arson, and multiple explosive devices. Several officers were also injured in the chaos."
Devon froze mid-breath.
Lily Estate.
He stared at the footage — the charred walls, the stretchers, the burned-out cars.
Then his gaze dropped back to his phone, to Quinn's name, repeated over and over in that missed call list.
No.
She couldn't have been…
But why else—
Devon spun and pushed through the lobby doors, the cool morning air smacking him in the face. The sun was barely up, but it was already bright enough to make his headache pulse.
He reached the parking lot.
Stopped dead.
The space where his car should have been… was empty.
For a second, his mind went blank. Then came the slow burn of realization.
His jaw tightened. "You—" He pointed at the air like he was addressing the universe. "—are a whore." He didn't even need to say her name. She knew. Somewhere, she knew.
A cab rolled by. Devon didn't wave; he just stepped off the curb, forcing it to slam on the brakes. He yanked the door open and slid inside.
"Where to, boss?" the driver asked.
Devon slumped back, still clutching his phone like it might spill the answer if he squeezed hard enough. "Just drive. I'll tell you where once I remember how to breathe."
The cab pulled away, the hotel disappearing in the rearview. Devon's thumb hovered over Quinn's name. The massacre footage kept replaying in his head.
And for the first time in years, he didn't have a smart remark ready.
room, thin gold lines stretching over Sage's face and the pale sheets. The steady beep… beep… of the monitor and the slow drip from his IV made the place feel almost peaceful — a cruel lie compared to whatever was happening out there in the city.
The nurse was by his side, humming under her breath while switching his drip bag.
"Another day or two, and we can probably get you discharged," she said casually, like they were talking about weather.
"Mm-hmm," Sage murmured, his voice lazy, eyes half-lidded. He wasn't exactly eager to rush anywhere. His body still felt like lead, and honestly? Lying here wasn't the worst thing in the world.
The nurse had just turned toward the door when it slammed open.
Zara burst in like a human hurricane, her hair slightly disheveled, cheeks flushed from running.
"You—have you seen the news?!" she blurted.
Sage tilted his head, unimpressed. "Okaaayyy… what's up with the news?"
He stretched like someone who absolutely did not care, which only seemed to make Zara more frantic.
She didn't even answer him. She snatched the remote from the table, her hands moving fast. The TV flickered through channels until the screen froze on chaos — flashing police lights, yellow tape, smoke curling into the morning sky.
A reporter's voice was sharp over the noise:
"…one of the deadliest massacres Dusane has seen. The Lily Estate tragedy left dozens dead, including multiple officers. Witnesses say the attackers planted explosives throughout the property before escaping…"
The camera cut to Draya, standing amidst the wreckage, her voice crisp but tight:
"These criminals are escalating. If this continues, the country may have no choice but to request intervention from Velvrai's capital. We cannot allow this to continue."
In the background: paramedics rushing limp bodies into ambulances, officers shouting to keep the crowd back, and the distant wail of sirens still moving toward the scene.
Zara stood there, staring at the screen, her hands clenching into fists.
"I haven't seen my brother since yesterday," she said quietly at first, then her voice cracked. "I pray he's safe… oh, Silas, I hope you're safe wherever you are…"
But Sage wasn't even listening anymore. His phone screen had lit up in his hand, and when he unlocked it, his stomach dropped.
54 missed calls from Quinn.
His heart gave a sharp thud. That lazy calm he'd worn like armor just shattered.
"Oh, hell no—" he muttered, ripping the IV out of his arm.
Zara turned just in time to see him swing his legs over the bed. "Sage, wait! You're still weak—"
But he was already on his feet, ignoring the way the floor swayed under him. Adrenaline drowned out the ache in his body. He staggered, caught himself, and moved toward the door without so much as a backward glance.
"Sage!" she called after him, but he was gone — barreling down the hallway in hospital slippers, because 54 missed calls from Quinn didn't mean inconvenience.
It meant danger.
It meant now.
Sage burst through the hospital's sliding doors like a man escaping prison, except this "prison" had IV drips and a nurse somewhere yelling, "Sir! You can't leave without signing the discharge papers!"
He didn't care.
He couldn't care.
Every step down the busy corridor made people instinctively step aside — maybe it was the wild look in his eyes, maybe it was the fact that he was still in hospital slippers and his gown was half untied, flapping open with each staggering stride. He kept his phone glued to his ear, hitting redial, over and over.
"Come on… come on, pick up," he muttered. Beep. Beep. Beep. Straight to voicemail. Again.
The sunlight outside was blinding, stabbing at his eyes, making the pounding in his skull worse. His ribs ached every time he breathed too deep. Last night's fight had left him feeling like a crash test dummy after a head-on collision. Hell, he hadn't been hit like that since high school, back when he was the quiet, scrawny kid the seniors used as a punching bag. He'd sworn never to be that helpless again.
And yet… here he was.