Chapter 32: His Fury

ELIZA’S POV

For a second, I thought the tequila had finally gotten to my head.

Because the last person I expected to see in a place like this was Vinton Crost.

Yet there he was.

Standing near the entrance of the club like he owned the damn place.

He hadn’t moved. Not an inch. His broad shoulders were stiff beneath a dark shirt, the sleeves rolled just enough to reveal the strong line of his forearms. His dark curls had fallen slightly over his forehead like they always did when he’d been running his hand through them.

But it was his eyes that held me in place.

Those velvet-dark eyes were locked directly on me.

And they looked furious.

My stomach dropped somewhere near my heels.

Beside me, Nora followed my line of sight. I felt the exact moment she spotted him because her entire body went rigid.

“Oh,” she breathed.

Then she leaned closer to me, squinting like she wasn’t sure her drunk brain was seeing clearly.

“Is that…?”

“Yes,” I muttered.

“Holy shit.”

She straightened slowly, her expression morphing from confusion to fascination.

“Well,” she said faintly, “this just became interesting.”

Interesting wasn’t the word I would have used.

Terrifying felt closer.

My first instinct was denial. Maybe he wasn’t actually looking at me. Maybe I was imagining things. The alcohol had blurred enough edges tonight already.

But when I shifted slightly, his gaze followed me.

Unblinking.

Focused.

Intent.

My pulse spiked.

“What the hell is he doing here?” Nora asked under her breath.

“I have no idea,” I said.

But the truth was, a small, uncomfortable part of me already had a guess.

Nora’s head turned toward me slowly.

Her eyes narrowed in that calculating way she had when she thought she’d discovered something.

“Did he follow you?”

I scoffed immediately.

“That’s ridiculous.”

Except it didn’t sound very convincing. Not even to me.

Nora folded her arms and looked between me and the entrance again.

“He looks like a man who followed someone.”

I refused to look at him again.

Instead, I grabbed the nearest shot on the bar and downed it without thinking.

The burn barely registered this time.

“You’re not running away, are you?” Nora asked, her voice dripping with curiosity.

“Of course not.”

Because if I turned around and walked out now, that would mean I cared that he was here.

And I absolutely did not care.

I grabbed another drink instead.

“Besides,” I added, forcing my tone into something casual, “he probably isn’t even here for me.”

Nora raised an eyebrow so high it nearly disappeared into her hairline.

“Right,” she said slowly. “Because billionaires just casually hang around random clubs watching their employees drink themselves stupid.”

I ignored her.

Or at least I tried to.

But it was impossible not to feel him.

Even across the room, I could feel the weight of his gaze like a physical thing pressing against my skin.

Every instinct told me to turn around.

So naturally, I refused.

Instead, I grabbed Nora’s hand and dragged her back toward the dance floor.

“Liza,” she protested weakly, stumbling behind me. “I think you’re drunk enough already.”

“Not yet.”

We moved back into the mass of bodies.

The music felt louder now. The lights brighter. The alcohol warmer in my veins.

But even as I moved with the rhythm again, my mind wasn’t quiet anymore.

Because I could still feel it.

Him.

Watching.

“Okay,” Nora said eventually, grabbing my arm again. “Now I’m really drunk.”

“Congratulations.”

“No seriously,” she insisted. “The floor is moving.”

“That’s because you’re swaying.”

She blinked slowly, trying to focus.

“You’re very judgmental tonight.”

“And you’re very drunk.”

After another drink—one I didn’t even remember ordering—the night began to blur around the edges.

Nora leaned heavily against me as we made our way out of the club sometime later.

“Text me,” she slurred as she climbed into a cab. “When you get home.”

“I will.”

The ride back to the mansion felt longer than usual.

The alcohol had settled deep into my bones now, making everything feel soft and distant.

By the time the car stopped outside the gates, the world was spinning just slightly.

I stepped out and walked toward the front door, steadying myself on the railing.

The house was quiet.

Too quiet.

I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The hallway lights were dim, casting long shadows across the floor.

I had barely taken three steps when a voice cut through the silence like a blade.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

I froze.

Slowly, I lifted my head.

Vinton Crost stood at the end of the hallway.

He looked nothing like the man I had seen in the club earlier.

This version of him was worse.

His jaw was tight enough to crack stone, his broad shoulders rigid with tension. The dark curls that usually fell carelessly across his forehead were pushed back now, revealing eyes that burned with barely restrained fury.

He took one slow step toward me.

The air between us felt suddenly charged.

“Answer me,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

My brain struggled to catch up with the moment.

“You were at the club,” I said stupidly.

His expression darkened even further.

“Yes.”

Another step closer.

“And now you’re standing here,” he continued coldly, his gaze dragging slowly over me, “barely able to keep your balance.”

I lifted my chin stubbornly, even though the hallway tilted slightly.

“That’s none of your business.”

His laugh was short.

Humorless.

“Oh, I think it is.”

Then his eyes locked onto mine again.

Dangerous. Furious. Possessive in a way that made my pulse jump.

“Now,” he said slowly, his voice tightening with anger, “tell me where the hell you’ve been… and why the fuck you got yourself shit-faced tonight.”