"Hold on a bit, please," she replied, her tone polite but brisk. He could hear the faint click-clack of keys being punched in the background as she pulled up whatever system they used, and he fell silent, the annoyance etching deeper lines into his forehead and making the veins in his arms stand out like taut cables.
Finally, she came back. "Yes, sir. How may I be of help?"
"I would like to inquire just how long ago my..." Zion paused, the word catching in his throat. What was she to him? A fling? A mistake? He settled on the safest lie. "...girlfriend left my room this morning."
"Oh." There was a subtle shift in her voice—annoyance creeping in, like she'd heard this story one too many times. "Description, please."
"Petite, brown hair, and she must have been wearing a white gown or—"
"A lot of women matching that description have stepped out of this hotel since 6 A.M. this morning," she interrupted, her patience thinning. "I'll leave a suggestion: you can call her, sir."
Zion's eyes darkened, a storm brewing behind them as he slammed the receiver back into its cradle with a sharp crack. Of course he could call her—if he had her damn phone number, that is. Which, naturally, he didn't. The irony twisted like a knife, leaving him seething.
He started pacing the room, bare feet thudding against the floor in restless loops, his mind racing. There had to be something—some overlooked detail, some way to track her down before she slipped away for good.
Suddenly, a spark ignited in Zion's mind, cutting through the fog of frustration like a beacon. He strode to the bedside drawer, snatched up his phone, and dialed Atlas's number without a second thought.
"My room, this minute," he barked into the receiver, his voice low and commanding, before ending the call with a jab of his thumb.
Atlas, ever the efficient assistant, didn't waste time. Less than five minutes later, a sharp knock echoed at the door. Zion yanked it open, his expression thunderous, and Atlas stepped inside—dressed impeccably in his tailored suit for the day's grind, a tablet tucked under one arm, and a flicker of uncertainty clouding his sharp features. 'Who the hell had pissed off the boss this early?'
"Sir..." he started cautiously, trailing off as he took in Zion's disheveled state and the palpable tension crackling in the air.
"The car you ran into yesterday," Zion said, his voice clipped and edged with steel, eyes burning with barely contained rage as he loomed over the shorter man. "I need you to call the mechanic. Make sure that car isn't picked up until we get there."
Atlas blinked, confusion etching lines across his brow. 'What?' The accident from the day before—some fender-bender on the way to the wedding venue—had been a minor headache, already handled as far as he knew. But Zion's tone left no room for questions.
"Just do as I say!" Zion snapped, his yell slicing through the room like a whip.
Atlas flinched visibly, his hand jerking toward his pocket as he pulled out his phone, fingers already flying across the screen to dial the mechanic's number. He nodded curtly, turning slightly for privacy as he murmured into the device, confirming the hold on the vehicle with clipped efficiency.
Zion dropped onto the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, his gaze locked on Atlas like a predator watching its prey. This was it—the thread he could pull to unravel her escape. That car had to be hers, or at least connected. And if it led him to her, payback would be swift.
Atlas ended the call with a disappointed grimace, his shoulders slumping as he pocketed his phone. Zion's eyes narrowed at him, anticipation sharpening into dread.
"The car was just picked up this morning," Atlas said gravely, his voice low as if delivering a death sentence.
"Can you believe this woman?!" Zion exploded, springing up from the bed in a surge of fury, his muscles coiling like a spring ready to snap. "She just throws herself into my bed and sneaks right out the next morning! Can you imagine that? Just who does she think she is?!"
Atlas remained silent, his expression neutral but his mind racing. 'Why was the boss so worked up over some ordinary woman?' Zion could have his pick—models, socialites, anyone—yet here he was, unraveling over a one-night ghost. Then, Atlas's gaze snagged on something peeking out from between the folds of the duvet: a flash of red. "Ummm, sir...?" He pointed hesitantly at the fabric just beside Zion.
Zion followed his gesture, frowning as he reached down and plucked up the delicate red lace panty, dangling it from his fingers like incriminating evidence. He clicked his tongue in irritation. 'She probably couldn't find this in her hasty escape and just left it behind.' That damn woman—leaving pieces of herself scattered like breadcrumbs he didn't even want.
"We have to find her, Atlas," he growled, collapsing back onto the bed with a heavy thud. "Comb each and every acre of this goddamn city. Find her and bring her to me." As he sank into the mattress, a nagging question twisted in his gut: 'What was it about her that was driving him absolutely nuts?' He couldn't pinpoint the reason for his rage, this obsessive pull, but it clawed at him relentlessly, refusing to let go.
"And when I find her?" Atlas ventured, his tone careful, testing the waters.
Zion's head snapped up, his gaze locking onto his assistant. "What did you say?"
"What happens when I find her, sir?" Atlas pressed, his curiosity overriding caution for a moment.
Zion's jaw tightened, the muscles ticking like a countdown. "I'll make her pay," he said, the words laced with venom.
Atlas knew he shouldn't push, but concern—and a flicker of bewilderment—won out. "For?"
At the question, Zion's fierce expression faltered, his eyes softening as he looked away, staring at the wall as if it held the answers he lacked. He had no response, and they both knew it—the anger was a mask for something deeper, something he wasn't ready to name.
Sighing deeply, Atlas shook his head, the weight of unspoken frustrations evident in the furrow of his brow. He straightened his tie, composing himself before pressing on. "On the other hand, sir, we have more pressing issues to attend to."
Zion's fiery glare cooled into a mask of boredom, his shoulders slumping as he leaned back against the headboard. "Which are?" he drawled, the edge of his anger dulling like a blade set aside.
Atlas inhaled sharply, then exhaled, steeling himself for the barrage of familial drama he was about to unload. "For starters, your mother has a message for you. She said—and I quote—'Zion Ashcroft, I expect you to have your head back here in Oregon in the next three days! I know that you're done with your business there. Just what do you think you're doing staying away from home for so long despite all that's going on here?! And you're ignoring all my calls and messages. Now I swear by my parent's grave that if you're not in Oregon by Tuesday, I'll come to that country myself and you shall know hell shall be released when you disobey me again!'" Atlas delivered the words in a pitch-perfect imitation of Mrs. Ashcroft's imperious tone—sharp, unyielding, with a dramatic flair that even had him chuckling softly at the end, though it died quickly under Zion's unamused stare.
"Tuesday, she said?" Zion muttered, pushing himself up from the bed in one fluid motion, his bare feet hitting the floor with a soft thud. He paced a few steps, running a hand through his tousled blonde hair, the reality of home crashing back in like an unwelcome tide.
Atlas nodded gravely, flipping open his tablet to scroll through his notes for emphasis. "Your coronation as Alpha prince is in 27 days, sir. You're soon-to-be Luna is at the palace already—pacing the halls like a caged wolf, from what I've heard. Everyone is waiting for you back home. Alpha Zachary called yesterday; he said they've been thinking of taking the Luna to a doctor for her hysterics. She's been going on and on about how you need to pick up their calls or return home. The pack's starting to murmur—rumors of delays, questions about your commitment. It's a powder keg waiting for a spark."
Zion stopped pacing, his back to Atlas as he stared out the window at the bustling city below, the weight of duty settling over him like a heavy cloak. The mystery woman from last night felt like a distant echo now, drowned out by the roar of expectations pulling him back to Oregon. But even as obligation gnawed at him, a stubborn spark of defiance—and that inexplicable pull—refused to fade entirely.
"I don't wish to speak to either of them," Zion said flatly, his voice carrying the finality of a slammed door.
It was only then, as he caught his reflection in the large mirror dominating one wall of the suite, that he realized he'd been pacing around half-naked all morning—his chiseled torso bare, sweatpants slung low on his hips, a far cry from the polished Alpha prince the world expected. The sight of himself like this, vulnerable and disheveled, only fueled the low simmer of irritation in his chest.
"But..." He trailed off, raking his hands through his thick black hair once more, trying to tame the wild strands as if that could restore some order to the chaos of his morning. "Book a flight and get our tickets to Oregon. We leave on Tuesday."
Atlas nodded without a word, already tapping away on his tablet, his fingers a blur as he pulled up airline schedules and availability. He knew better than to argue when Zion's mind was made up—especially not when duty clashed with whatever personal storm was brewing.
Zion turned away from the mirror, the weight of Atlas's earlier words settling in like an anchor. His assistant was right; there were more pressing matters demanding his attention—the coronation, the pack, the Luna waiting in Oregon like a ticking clock. Obligations he couldn't ignore forever, no matter how much he wanted to chase shadows in a foreign city.
But two days. He had just two days left in this place before the pull of home dragged him away. Two days to hunt down the woman who had slipped through his fingers like smoke, leaving him with nothing but rage, a forgotten scrap of lace, and an ache he couldn't name. As Atlas murmured confirmations into his phone, Zion headed toward the closet, yanking out a crisp shirt and slacks. Time to get dressed—and get to work.