---- Chapter 9 No.9 Chase felt the shift the moment he stepped off the plane at LAX. This wasn't his city. The air, warm and dry, smelled of exhaust and alien flowers. This was her territory now. Her aunt's. He had expected Clare to break. To call him, crying, within a week. He had underestimated her. Or, more accurately, he had underestimated Isolde Rhodes. His team's workup painted a picture of a formidable, notoriously private tech powerhouse. A dragon guarding a treasure he had foolishly discarded. His phone had been silent for weeks. No desperate calls. No angry texts. Nothing. The silence was a gaping void in his perfectly curated life. He found himself checking it constantly, a nervous tic he couldn't quell. He'd walk past her favorite bakery-the one that made the little macarons she loved-and feel a pang of... annoyance. That's what he told himself. It was annoying that she wasn't there to want them. He had gone back to their apartment-his apartment-after she left. It was sterile. The scent of her shampoo was gone from the bathroom. Her teacup was no longer left on the counter. The space felt hollow, a stage without its lead actress. Karis had tried to fill the void, always there, trying too hard, ---- filling the apartment with flowers that gave him a headache. She'd cook his favorite meals, but they never tasted right. It wasn't Clare's cooking. He found himself snapping at her for small things, his patience worn thin by a constant, low-grade irritation he couldn't name. He told himself he was here to get answers. To demand an apology. To bring her back where she belonged. He rented a car and drove to the address his investigator had found. A cliffside mansion in Malibu. The sheer scale of it, the quiet wealth it represented, grated on him. This wasn't the world he had designed for her. She was supposed to need him. He parked down the street, watching the house. He felt like a common stalker, and the thought was galling. He was Chase Strong. He didn't stalk. He summoned. Acar pulled out of the driveway. A man was driving. And in the passenger seat, laughing at something the driver said, was Clare. She looked... different. Healthy. Relaxed. The haunted look was gone. She was wearing a simple sundress, her hair tied back. She looked happy. A hot, possessive rage surged through him. Who was this man? How dare he make her laugh like that? He had to get to her. He had to remind her who she belonged to.