Chapter 33: Patience

CASSIAN

I checked my phone for what felt like the hundredth time, even though only five minutes had passed since the last. 9:40 PM glared back at me in bright, indifferent numbers. Still no response.

The documents spread across my desk, thick contracts, glossy architectural renderings, and the preliminary financials for the Hendrix development looked like props rather than work.

I couldn’t process a single line. My attention kept circling back to the same point: the phone, the silence, the creeping irritation that had been tightening slowly around my spine like a fist.

Three and half hours ago I’d sent him the message.

Clear, specific, impossible to misunderstand.

Pack for three weeks. Business trip to Spain. Hendrix development project. Flight at 10 PM. Don’t be late.

Nothing about it was optional. He knew that. He knew exactly how I operated, exactly what defiance cost, exactly where he stood with me. And yet… nothing.

I dialed his number. It rang three times before dropping into that too-cheerful voicemail of his: “Hey, this is Noah. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”

I hung up before the beep. I wasn’t here to beg for attention from someone who owed it to me. I set the phone down, irritation tightening in my jaw. Where the hell is he?

By 9:50, the silence was beginning to feel deliberate. I tried calling again… straight to voicemail this time. No rings. No explanation. Just a wall.

My jaw flexed. He wouldn’t dare. He wouldn’t test me like this. Not Noah. Not the boy who’d nearly come undone the last time he’d pushed me too far.

Not after I’d spelled out the consequences of disobedience with enough clarity to etch them into his bones.

My fingers drummed rhythmically on the arm of my chair… sharp, impatient beats echoing through the office. The Spain trip was too important for games.

Hendrix Corporation controlled half the luxury development pipeline in Barcelona and Valencia. Securing a partnership with them would push XUM into a new league.

For that, I needed Noah. Not because he was exceptional… he wasn’t, not yet… but because he belonged at my side. Because he was mine to bring.

I checked the phone again. 9:57 PM. Still nothing. The longer the silence stretched, the more it dug its claws in. “He wouldn’t dare,” I muttered again, but even I didn’t believe it anymore.

At 10:00 PM, a knock sounded on my office door. “Enter,” I snapped.

One of my security officers stepped in, shoulders tense as if he already expected the worst. “Sir, the airport called. Your jet is ready for departure.”

I didn’t take my eyes off my phone. “Tell them I’m not leaving yet.”

A pause followed… brief, but insolent enough to register. “Sir, the flight window—”

I lifted my gaze to his, cold enough to shut every thought in his head down. “Did I stutter?”

His face drained of color. “No, sir. I’ll inform them right away.” He left with quick, clipped steps, shutting the door with more caution than force.

I dialed Noah again. Voicemail. Again. Voicemail. The plastic casing of my phone groaned under the pressure of my grip, the threat of shattering lingering at the edge of my temper.

And beneath the anger… sharp, hot, undeniable, something else flickered. Something I didn’t welcome. Something I hated feeling.

A flicker of worry.

10:45 PM

I’d been pacing my office long enough to wear a path into the carpet. Every step was a slow, measured drag of tension, like I was trying not to put my foot through the floor.

My tie hung loosened around my neck, the top buttons of my shirt undone, sleeves rolled high enough to show the tight line of muscle in my forearms.

My jacket was tossed over the back of my chair, forgotten hours ago when irritation turned into something closer to anger.

The cigar in the ashtray had burned itself out, leaving behind a thin, wavering trail of smoke that curled upward toward the ceiling like it was afraid to rise.

The room smelled like tobacco, frustration, and the faint hint of something burning… maybe my patience.

I lit another cigar with a flick of my thumb, inhaled deeply, and let the smoke roll out of my mouth in a slow, steady exhale. I wasn’t watching the smoke; I was watching the phone on my desk like it owed me something.

I called Noah again.

Voicemail. Of course.

“Hey, this is Noah. Leave a message—”

I hung up, and the phone hit the desk with a crack that sent the papers shuffling in a startled ripple. A pen rolled until it hit the edge and fell. I didn’t pick it up.

“When I find him…” I didn’t bother finishing the sentence. The anger in the room finished it for me. Anyone who walked in would’ve known exactly what that promise meant.

And I would find him. I always did. People didn’t vanish on me, not without consequences. Ignoring me wasn’t just disrespect, it was a mistake.

10:45 PM

I snatched the office phone and dialed an internal extension, my jaw locked so tight I could hear the tension crackle in my ear.

“Tech department,” a bored voice answered.

“I need a number traced.”

“Sir?”

“Noah Bennett. His personal cell.” I rattled off the digits from memory. “Get me a location.”

There was a pause. I hated pauses.

“Sir, we’d need authorization from—”

“You have mine,” I said, cutting him off without raising my voice. Quiet was always worse. “I don’t care what system you have to override or what logs you erase. Find him. Now.”

Before he could mutter another useless objection, I ended the call.

I grabbed my personal phone and dialed Noah again, fully expecting the same automated voice to spit in my ear. I was already bracing for it.

Instead… it rang.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then a click.

“Uh… hello?”

Not Noah. Wrong cadence. Younger. Nervous. Immediately wrong.

I froze mid-step, my entire body going still, the kind of still that meant something dangerous had just settled inside me.

“Who is this?” The question came out low and cold enough to make grown men stop breathing.

“Um… I’m Luke. I’m a bartender at Aurora Club downtown…”

“Why do you have this phone?” Every word was clipped, controlled, sharpened to a blade.

“The owner passed out at the bar. I saw his phone ringing and picked up—”

I was already moving.

“Don’t move,” I said, my voice settling into a tone that didn’t allow disobedience. “Stay with him. Don’t let anyone touch him. I’m on my way.”

I ended the call before he could even confirm he understood.

The elevator ride dragged on like the universe was mocking me. Every floor ticked by slower than the last, the soft hum of the machinery only feeding the pressure climbing up my spine.

My mind wasn’t pacing, it was sprinting. Noah. Passed out. At a bar. At Pulse Club, of all places.

What the hell was he doing back there? And why the fuck was he drunk enough to pass out?

The elevator doors slid open with a polite, infuriating little ding.

I walked out like a storm in a suit.

The garage lights cast harsh white stripes across the concrete, shadows stretching under my feet as I cut through the rows toward the car. My Mercedes waited in its usual spot.

My driver stood beside it, straight-backed and alert, the way he always was when I worked late. He straightened even more when he saw my face.

“Mr. Wolfe, shall I—”

“Don’t bother.” I cut him off.

I didn’t waste a second. I slid into the driver’s seat, the leather groaning under my weight, and started the car. The engine roared awake like it knew better than to hesitate tonight.

I slammed the door shut, gripped the wheel, and peeled out of the parking space hard enough to echo through the garage. The tires screamed, and I didn’t bother apologizing to the concrete for the damage.

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