Melissa Maxton was not a woman who panicked.

She had built a wine empire on ice-cold composure. Had survived twenty years married to Harold by never once letting him see her sweat. Had navigated the shark-infested waters of Paradise's social hierarchy with a smile sharp enough to fillet reputations and nerves forged from something colder than steel.

She did not panic.

She did not pace her bedroom at 11 PM staring at her phone like a lovesick teenager.

She did not call the same number seventeen times in two hours, each unanswered ring twisting something vicious in her chest that she refused—absolutely refused—to name.

Except tonight, apparently, she did all of those things.

He said he was checking the condo. That was four hours ago. Four bloody hours.

The evening had already been a farce before this particular brand of torment.

Vivian Adriana had rung her in hysterics around 5 PM—something about Brett, about a beating, about hospital and how could this happen in Paradise—and Melissa had rushed over to play the supportive best friend.

Had held Vivian's manicured hand while she sobbed into thousand-dollar tissues.

Had made the right sympathetic noises, said the right soothing lies, been the perfect shoulder to cry on.

All while her mind kept sliding, treacherous and inevitable, back to Phei.

To what he might have done.

To what he was capable of now.

She'd left Vivian's around 9, promising to check in tomorrow, and immediately tried calling him. Once. Twice. Ten times. Seventeen.

Nothing.

The phone sat in her palm now, screen dark, mocking her with its silence. She'd texted. Called. Texted again. Not even a read receipt. Not a single sign of life.

Melissa sank onto the edge of her bed—the bed she shared with Harold, who was currently snoring off a whiskey bender in the guest room because she couldn't stomach the smell of failure on his breath tonight—and tried to think rationally.

He's probably busy. Exploring the place. Maybe he fell asleep. He is exhausted from training; He'd probably been at the gym for hours. Of course he's tired. Of course he passed out. That's all this is.

But the reasoning rang hollow. Paper-thin.

Because underneath the logic was something else—something that had been festering in her chest since that night in the library, something warm and terrifying and utterly foreign that had nothing to do with marks or magic or whatever cosmic joke had rewired her body to crave him.

She was worried because she loved him?

The thought landed like a guillotine blade, clean and irreversible.

Hahaha. She gave herself a hollow laugh, but the truth sat there.

When did that happen?

But she knew when. Had probably known for longer than she cared to admit. Maybe it had started in the library, when he'd looked at her with those eyes that stripped away every layer of pretense she'd worn for twenty years.

Maybe it had started when he touched me like I mattered—like she was more than Harold's decorative wife, more than a bitter woman going through the motions of a life that had stopped feeling like hers long ago.

Or maybe—and this was the thought that truly terrified her—maybe it had always been there. Buried deep. Suppressed. Twisted into something that looks like hatred because... hatred is safer, because hatred was what I was supposed to feel, because someone had made it abundantly clear what would happen if I ever—

She shut that thought down hard. Not now. She couldn't think about that now.

Focus. He's not answering. What do you do?

She tried calling again.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.

Voicemail.

"Phei, darling, please call me back. I just want to know you're alright. Please."

She hung up. Stared at the phone.

And for the first time in years, Melissa—the woman who did not panic—felt something perilously close to fear.

Not for her reputation. Not for her wine empire.

For him.

Her Dragon.

Her boy.

The one person in this gilded cage of a city who had ever made her feel alive.

And he wasn't answering.

Maybe he's with another woman. The thought slithered up uninvited, and Melissa's hands froze on the phone like it had suddenly turned to ice.

Another woman. Some lithe little thing from the building, perhaps—one of those twenty-something trust-fund yogis who floated through the Sovereign's lobby in designer athleisure, all long legs and zero body fat.

Or a trainer from the gym, all toned and eager, pressing against him while "demonstrating proper form."

He is more attractive now—changing so fast it made her head spin. Features sharpening overnight, presence thickening like storm clouds gathering.

That forgettable boy was evaporating, replaced by something dangerous, something that made people look twice and then pretend they hadn't.

Less than two days and he already looks like a different species.

She shouldn't have been surprised. Not really. Not with what she knew about their real family.

The Ryujin Tiamat line people just pronounced without fully grasping the implications until it was far too late—until they see things that defies polite explanation and been told things they can not repeat without sounding insane.

The mark that had bloomed on her skin after that first night? Startled, yes. But not shocked. Not the way a normal woman would have been.

Because she'd been waiting for something like this. Had known, deep in the marrow, that Phei wasn't ordinary. Couldn't be ordinary. Not with their blood.

She just hadn't expected it to awaken so soon. Or so voraciously.

If he's with another woman— She'd accept it. Of course she would. She had known from the moment he'd claimed her—body, breath, soul—that she wouldn't be the only one.

Men like him—men with that blood, that hunger, that power—didn't limit themselves to solitary treasures. They collected. Conquered. Built harems the way dragons hoarded gold: greedily, obsessively, without apology.

And she would be part of that hoard.

Gladly. Willingly. Eagerly, even.

But if he's with another woman, he should still answer his fucking phone. He should still let me know he is safe.

He wasn't cruel—not to her. Whatever darkness coiled inside him now, whatever rage and appetite was stretching its wings, he'd been gentle with her afterward.

He had kissed me like I am the most fragile glass.

Had held her like she was the only thing keeping him tethered.

He wouldn't just ghost her. Not without reason.

Unless something's wrong.

Unless he can't answer.

Something else twisted in her gut then—something sharp and ancient she'd been carrying for seventeen years, pressing against her ribs like a second, malignant heartbeat.

I have to find him... Melissa was out the door before the thought had fully formed, phone clutched in one hand, keys in the other, barefoot in silk pajamas because shoes were for people who had time to think.

Let him be with another woman, she thought as she jabbed the elevator button hard enough to bruise her finger. Let him be balls-deep in half the building. Just let him be alive and answering when I get there.

The doors closed on her reflection—wild-eyed, hair escaping its nighttime braid, looking every inch the unhinged woman she had sworn she would never become.

Love makes fools of us all, she thought bitterly.

But it makes monsters of us too.

And tonight, Melissa Maxton was both.

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