Chapter 386

Sirens wailed outside the Houston Grand Hotel as police barricades sealed off the entire building.

A surging crowd pressed against the perimeter, leaving no space uncovered.

"Boss, the road's completely blocked ahead." Charlie slammed the brakes, tires screeching against asphalt.

Adrian's gaze remained locked on the hotel entrance. "Get out."

"But your legs—"

"Shut up."

The car door flew open. With both legs in casts, standing was nearly impossible. He collapsed back onto the seat with a thud.

Vincent arrived just in time, pushing a wheelchair. "Got it here."

As they lifted him into the chair, Adrian's shirt was already drenched in cold sweat.

"Sir, your injuries..." Vincent's voice trembled.

"Where's Stella?" Adrian cut him off.

Vincent swallowed hard. "...She's missing."

"What do you mean missing?!"

"The hotel staff thought she was with you...so they let them leave."

Adrian's knuckles turned white. "They left together?"

"Yes."

"Was she hurt?"

Vincent avoided his gaze. "You...should see the footage."

The surveillance video showed Stella being led out by a man who looked identical to Adrian. The impostor held her tightly against his chest, her wrists clamped in his grasp.

"Damn it!" Charlie punched the car door. "She actually went with that fake—"

"The front desk said," Vincent added reluctantly, "Mrs. Roland had reported a kidnapping earlier, but the staff saw them...playing some kind of roleplay game."

Charlie exploded. "What kind of sick game is that?!"

"The room had ropes, cigarette burns..." Vincent's voice dropped. "The sheets were torn."

"That bitch!" Charlie turned to Adrian. "Boss, she's not worth—"

"Enough." Adrian stared at his phone screen. "She has every right to hate me."

"But now she's—"

"Take me to Room 1231." Adrian interrupted. "I need to see for myself."

Vincent hesitated. "The scene might be...disturbing."

"Could it be worse than this?" Adrian sneered. "Push me there."

......

Stella woke to searing pain.

The stench of mildew mixed with cooked food filled the cramped space. Faint sunlight seeped through cracks in the wooden shutters—the only light in the dingy ten-square-foot hut.

Weathered farming tools hung on crumbling walls. She lay on a pile of straw, her wrists bruised purple from restraints.

Her last memory was of the hotel—Vincent Atlante pressing a chemical-soaked cloth over her face.

The door creaked open.

A hunched peasant woman entered, carrying a chipped ceramic bowl. Her clouded eyes held kindness as she offered steaming rice with a gap-toothed smile.

"She can't speak."

Vincent Atlante kicked the door wider, dropping onto the squeaky bed. The old woman gestured frantically, her expression furious.

"She's cursing me out." Vincent snatched the bowl, shoveling food into his mouth. "I told her you're my wife. She killed her only laying hen for this soup."

Stella turned away. "I'm not hungry."

"Suit yourself." Vincent gulped loudly. "As a kid, I only smelled broth like this at New Year's."

The woman stomped her foot, her calloused hands signing faster.

"What's she saying?" Stella asked.

Vincent licked his lips. "That I don't know how to cherish my woman." He leaned in, his breath reeking of grease. "Should I tell her you're actually Mrs. Roland?"