Page 24 of Vintage

"Take me to him. I need to see him. Right now, Darius. Please." My voice trembled, and I fought back tears.

"I’m not sure where he is, but we can start at the studio." His suggestion propelled me into action, and Darius quickly followed.

I was in no state to drive, so he took the wheel.

As we sped toward Ro’s studio, the trees, buildings, and streets blurred into a haze around us.

The unsettling sensation grew stronger, and nausea clawed at my throat. I took deep breaths to quell the rising tide of anxiety, but the helplessness and fear, for reasons both known and unknown, seeped into my very bones.

As soon as we arrived at Ro's studio, I leaped from the car, racing like the wind, and stood at the doorstep, ringing the bell frantically, but to no avail.

He wasn't there.

For the first time, the Ro who could spend endless hours lost in his artwork didn’t answer the door for me, the only girl he ever devoted his time and attention to.

It was hard to accept, especially after months of grappling with the rumors about Willow and Ro, the idea that he could truly fall out of love with me.

It felt impossible, yet undeniable; the moment I laid eyes on her, I knew I was fighting a losing battle.

She was, without question, the most breathtaking person I had ever seen.

Still, I clung to the hope that he would never betray our vows.

When she came to my house and somehow managed to disable the alarm and lock, her gaze was heavy, hollow, and filled with resentment.

She confessed that she was in love with my husband, and I had already witnessed how he cherished her company, confirming that he had indeed fallen out of love with me.

The sting of that truth was unbearable, and I asked her to take a note along with my wedding ring to Dimitri, not caring about what she wrote on the mirror with my lipstick.

To this day, I have no idea what her message was. Darius blocked my view of the mirror, and Reese quickly erased the words that were meant for my husband.

When she was questioned about breaking into our home, I selfishly defended her, driven by spite, wanting to show Ro that I had used his lover to get back at him.

But now, I find myself lost, unsure of what I’m doing or why I’m doing any of it.

"He’s not here, and staying won’t change anything. Let’s head to your place and hope he’s there."

The reassurance did little to quell the turmoil within me.

I followed Darius back to the car, and we drove to the house that I shared with Ro. He had put it in my name when we moved here, despite my hesitations.

As we arrived, I whispered in despair, taking in the sight of the place in disarray, as if it had been abandoned for ages.

It was surreal. The house felt more like a graveyard than the cherished home I had built with my husband.

“Fuck! Since your place is on the outskirts, I rarely pass by, so I couldn’t check on it. It looks like something out of a horror film.” If he intended to lighten the mood, he missed the mark completely.

I was overwhelmed by a sense of emptiness. The more I felt it, the deeper I sank into a pit of self-blame and guilt. It was hard to accept that my one choice had shattered everything, not just our relationship.

I couldn’t bring myself to exit the car and approach the door. From what I could see, it was clear that Ro wasn’t there. He was meticulous about appearances and had a classic taste. This disarray was far from what he would consider home.

“Should I file a missing person report?” I wondered, contemplating the idea rather than seeking advice from Darius, who seemed out of sorts.

“Let me call a few people... I’m sure we’ll track him down,” he replied, pulling his phone from his jeans pocket and starting to make calls.

By four in the afternoon, Darius was inching closer to my suggestion of filing a missing report. So far, thirty-six calls had been made, two members from the motorcycle club were dispatched to check every possible location Ro might have gone, and despite all our efforts, we were met with failure.

Ending another call, he tossed his phone onto the dashboard, honking the horn in frustration, and leaned back, rubbing his face in sheer despair.

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