Leah’s POVGolden morning light filters through the sheer curtains, casting soft, shifting patterns across the bed. The distant hum of waves reaches my ears, a steady rhythm against the stillness of my hotel room. I blink slowly, letting the warmth of the sun pull me into wakefulness.For a moment, I forget everything—the weight of the past, the storm of emotions Dwight stirred back into existence.But the moment is fleeting. Reality presses at the edges of my mind, creeping closer with every breath. I refuse to let it in.Not today.Stretching, I push back the covers and pad toward the balcony. The air is warm, tinged with salt and the faint, citrusy scent of the trees below. The sea stretches out in the distance, a perfect shade of blue under the early light. The streets hum with life—laughter, footsteps, the occasional ring of a bicycle bell.This is what I came here for.I deserve this.The thought steadies me. Anchors me.Breakfast. That’s a start. Something simple. Something nor
Leah’s POVAfter breakfast, I leave Mateo to his books and make my way through the narrow streets, allowing myself to soak in the warmth of the sun, the scent of fresh pastries, and the distant murmur of waves. Athens feels alive in a way that grounds me—steady, unbothered, unburdened by the past.I pause at a small shop with a glass display of handcrafted jewelry. Gold and silver pieces glint under the morning light, delicate chains adorned with tiny charms, rings inlaid with sea glass. The artistry is remarkable, each piece telling a story.A woman behind the counter catches my eye. She’s older, with graying curls pinned up in a messy twist. Her smile is kind.“Beautiful, aren’t they?” she says, her voice lightly accented.I nod, fingers ghosting over the glass. “They are.”She picks up a necklace, a fine gold chain with a small pendant—a pearl encased in an intricate sunburst design. “This one is a favorite. The pearl represents wisdom gained through experience, and the sun…” She g
Leah’s POVAthens has this pulse to it—a rhythm that doesn’t try to be anything other than what it is, ancient yet modern, loud yet quiet. I find a street vendor selling fruit, the rich smell of ripe peaches nearly overwhelming. I pause to pick one up, its skin warm and fuzzy against my fingers, and take a bite. The sweetness bursts in my mouth, so different from the dry, overripe ones I’ve had at home.I smile to myself, feeling the weight of Judith’s call still tugging at me. My father wants to talk. Wants me to come back. Wants me to pick up the pieces of my old life and return to the routine I left behind—the one that feels like it’s been waiting for me, frozen in time. But I know I can’t stay here forever. I’ve had my escape, but now it’s time to go back.I’m not a quitter. I made a promise, and I intend to keep it.My phone buzzes in my bag, but I ignore it. Instead, I let myself focus on the soft chatter of a nearby café, the clicking of a bicycle wheel, the way the sun feels o
Leah’s POVMorning finds me before I’m ready for it.Sunlight spills across the cool marble floor of my hotel room, pouring through gauzy white curtains that sway just slightly in the sea breeze. The hum of Athens rises gently beneath me—a quiet prelude to the day. I don’t move at first. I let myself drift in that fragile space between sleep and waking, where nothing yet demands anything of me.The sheets are tangled around my legs, soft and warm with the imprint of the night. I stare at the ceiling, memorizing the delicate crown molding, the way light moves along it, slowly brightening the corners. My limbs feel heavy, not from exhaustion, but from something quieter. Something deeper. Like the weight of a goodbye I haven’t yet said out loud.Athens hums beneath me—faint, familiar now. The soft whirr of scooters as they zip along uneven streets, the distant clink of cutlery from cafés setting up their terraces, and the occasional bark of a dog from somewhere far below. The air carries
Leah’s POVNew York greets me with a sigh.It’s a different kind of morning here—louder, steel-edged. The air bites with the scent of exhaust and something vaguely metallic, like the city’s been grinding its teeth all night. There’s no sea breeze. No citrus trees. No Acropolis glowing in the distance. Just buildings. Tall, grey, and unsentimental. Just like the people streaming past me as I wheel my suitcase across the terminal floor at JFK. I should feel relieved to be back. This is familiar. Structured. It’s the life I know. But as I slide into the back seat of the town car Dad sent, I feel like a guest in my own city.Judith had insisted that I send over my travel details. She had reiterated that father needed them. Right before I'd boarded, she'd informed me that a town car was going to wait for me. Father had always been protective. It wasn't new. When I was in High School, he had never allowed me to return home on foot, or use the school bus like my friends did. Heck, at 16,
Leah's POVThe coffee shop on Spring hasn’t changed. Still too cold, still too loud. The walls are still cluttered with vintage postcards no one reads, secondhand books no one touches, and a playlist that feels like someone’s breakup soundtrack stuck on loop.It feels weird walking in, suitcase still at my heel, fresh from the cab. Like I never left. Like the city’s been waiting with its usual indifference.And then I see it—our booth. Mine and Cece’s. Empty, like it’s been saving me a seat all this time.She’s already there, naturally. Halfway through a cinnamon roll that could be classified as architectural, waving me over like I’ve committed some great betrayal by arriving late.“About time,” she says, grinning wide as she slides my Americano across the table like it’s holy.I drop my bag with a soft thud and sink into the seat across from her. “Miss me that much?”“Please.” She rolls her eyes. “I was two seconds away from calling your dad to report a kidnapping.”I snort. “He woul
Dwight’s POVThe coffee on my desk has gone cold. I haven’t touched it. I don’t even remember when I ordered it—Carter must’ve dropped it off hours ago, before retreating with that look of quiet concern he doesn’t dare speak aloud. The surface has a faint film now, oily and still. It’s a small detail, insignificant, but it gnaws at me. Just another thing left unattended. Another thing that slipped past my grip.I haven’t eaten. Can’t. The reports in front of me blur, the black ink melting into the white paper like shadows bleeding into snow. I read and reread the same line over and over, but nothing sticks. My brain refuses to process it. The numbers, the projections, the incident breakdowns—they’re all just noise.My mind keeps drifting. Backward. To her.To Leah.The fire was here. In New York. Not overseas. Not one of our satellite facilities in developing regions where corruption, corner-cutting, and poor infrastructure might make for a believable excuse. No. This wasn’t negligenc
Dwight’s POVThe rhythmic clinking of metal against metal fills the air, a soft cadence that calms the storm behind my ribs. I’ve been here for hours, maybe longer. Time has folded into itself, unraveling only in the form of the golden loop I’m working on—intricate, flawed, human.It’s supposed to be a ring, but it’s more than that. It’s a tether. Something to keep me grounded when everything else feels like it’s slipping.My fingertips are blackened with soot and metal polish. I haven’t eaten. My back aches, and I can feel the stiff pull of a burn on the side of my wrist from where I grazed the torch earlier. Still, I don’t stop. I’m not ready to face the world waiting outside this place.This workshop is tucked far enough away from the main building that I rarely get disturbed. It’s smaller, more private. It smells of cedarwood, oil, and scorched silver. I didn’t even bring Carter here. Only a few know it exists. I needed a space that didn’t scream success or wealth or responsibilit
Dwight’s POVThe rhythmic clinking of metal against metal fills the air, a soft cadence that calms the storm behind my ribs. I’ve been here for hours, maybe longer. Time has folded into itself, unraveling only in the form of the golden loop I’m working on—intricate, flawed, human.It’s supposed to be a ring, but it’s more than that. It’s a tether. Something to keep me grounded when everything else feels like it’s slipping.My fingertips are blackened with soot and metal polish. I haven’t eaten. My back aches, and I can feel the stiff pull of a burn on the side of my wrist from where I grazed the torch earlier. Still, I don’t stop. I’m not ready to face the world waiting outside this place.This workshop is tucked far enough away from the main building that I rarely get disturbed. It’s smaller, more private. It smells of cedarwood, oil, and scorched silver. I didn’t even bring Carter here. Only a few know it exists. I needed a space that didn’t scream success or wealth or responsibilit
Dwight’s POVThe coffee on my desk has gone cold. I haven’t touched it. I don’t even remember when I ordered it—Carter must’ve dropped it off hours ago, before retreating with that look of quiet concern he doesn’t dare speak aloud. The surface has a faint film now, oily and still. It’s a small detail, insignificant, but it gnaws at me. Just another thing left unattended. Another thing that slipped past my grip.I haven’t eaten. Can’t. The reports in front of me blur, the black ink melting into the white paper like shadows bleeding into snow. I read and reread the same line over and over, but nothing sticks. My brain refuses to process it. The numbers, the projections, the incident breakdowns—they’re all just noise.My mind keeps drifting. Backward. To her.To Leah.The fire was here. In New York. Not overseas. Not one of our satellite facilities in developing regions where corruption, corner-cutting, and poor infrastructure might make for a believable excuse. No. This wasn’t negligenc
Leah's POVThe coffee shop on Spring hasn’t changed. Still too cold, still too loud. The walls are still cluttered with vintage postcards no one reads, secondhand books no one touches, and a playlist that feels like someone’s breakup soundtrack stuck on loop.It feels weird walking in, suitcase still at my heel, fresh from the cab. Like I never left. Like the city’s been waiting with its usual indifference.And then I see it—our booth. Mine and Cece’s. Empty, like it’s been saving me a seat all this time.She’s already there, naturally. Halfway through a cinnamon roll that could be classified as architectural, waving me over like I’ve committed some great betrayal by arriving late.“About time,” she says, grinning wide as she slides my Americano across the table like it’s holy.I drop my bag with a soft thud and sink into the seat across from her. “Miss me that much?”“Please.” She rolls her eyes. “I was two seconds away from calling your dad to report a kidnapping.”I snort. “He woul
Leah’s POVNew York greets me with a sigh.It’s a different kind of morning here—louder, steel-edged. The air bites with the scent of exhaust and something vaguely metallic, like the city’s been grinding its teeth all night. There’s no sea breeze. No citrus trees. No Acropolis glowing in the distance. Just buildings. Tall, grey, and unsentimental. Just like the people streaming past me as I wheel my suitcase across the terminal floor at JFK. I should feel relieved to be back. This is familiar. Structured. It’s the life I know. But as I slide into the back seat of the town car Dad sent, I feel like a guest in my own city.Judith had insisted that I send over my travel details. She had reiterated that father needed them. Right before I'd boarded, she'd informed me that a town car was going to wait for me. Father had always been protective. It wasn't new. When I was in High School, he had never allowed me to return home on foot, or use the school bus like my friends did. Heck, at 16,
Leah’s POVMorning finds me before I’m ready for it.Sunlight spills across the cool marble floor of my hotel room, pouring through gauzy white curtains that sway just slightly in the sea breeze. The hum of Athens rises gently beneath me—a quiet prelude to the day. I don’t move at first. I let myself drift in that fragile space between sleep and waking, where nothing yet demands anything of me.The sheets are tangled around my legs, soft and warm with the imprint of the night. I stare at the ceiling, memorizing the delicate crown molding, the way light moves along it, slowly brightening the corners. My limbs feel heavy, not from exhaustion, but from something quieter. Something deeper. Like the weight of a goodbye I haven’t yet said out loud.Athens hums beneath me—faint, familiar now. The soft whirr of scooters as they zip along uneven streets, the distant clink of cutlery from cafés setting up their terraces, and the occasional bark of a dog from somewhere far below. The air carries
Leah’s POVAthens has this pulse to it—a rhythm that doesn’t try to be anything other than what it is, ancient yet modern, loud yet quiet. I find a street vendor selling fruit, the rich smell of ripe peaches nearly overwhelming. I pause to pick one up, its skin warm and fuzzy against my fingers, and take a bite. The sweetness bursts in my mouth, so different from the dry, overripe ones I’ve had at home.I smile to myself, feeling the weight of Judith’s call still tugging at me. My father wants to talk. Wants me to come back. Wants me to pick up the pieces of my old life and return to the routine I left behind—the one that feels like it’s been waiting for me, frozen in time. But I know I can’t stay here forever. I’ve had my escape, but now it’s time to go back.I’m not a quitter. I made a promise, and I intend to keep it.My phone buzzes in my bag, but I ignore it. Instead, I let myself focus on the soft chatter of a nearby café, the clicking of a bicycle wheel, the way the sun feels o
Leah’s POVAfter breakfast, I leave Mateo to his books and make my way through the narrow streets, allowing myself to soak in the warmth of the sun, the scent of fresh pastries, and the distant murmur of waves. Athens feels alive in a way that grounds me—steady, unbothered, unburdened by the past.I pause at a small shop with a glass display of handcrafted jewelry. Gold and silver pieces glint under the morning light, delicate chains adorned with tiny charms, rings inlaid with sea glass. The artistry is remarkable, each piece telling a story.A woman behind the counter catches my eye. She’s older, with graying curls pinned up in a messy twist. Her smile is kind.“Beautiful, aren’t they?” she says, her voice lightly accented.I nod, fingers ghosting over the glass. “They are.”She picks up a necklace, a fine gold chain with a small pendant—a pearl encased in an intricate sunburst design. “This one is a favorite. The pearl represents wisdom gained through experience, and the sun…” She g
Leah’s POVGolden morning light filters through the sheer curtains, casting soft, shifting patterns across the bed. The distant hum of waves reaches my ears, a steady rhythm against the stillness of my hotel room. I blink slowly, letting the warmth of the sun pull me into wakefulness.For a moment, I forget everything—the weight of the past, the storm of emotions Dwight stirred back into existence.But the moment is fleeting. Reality presses at the edges of my mind, creeping closer with every breath. I refuse to let it in.Not today.Stretching, I push back the covers and pad toward the balcony. The air is warm, tinged with salt and the faint, citrusy scent of the trees below. The sea stretches out in the distance, a perfect shade of blue under the early light. The streets hum with life—laughter, footsteps, the occasional ring of a bicycle bell.This is what I came here for.I deserve this.The thought steadies me. Anchors me.Breakfast. That’s a start. Something simple. Something nor
(Dwight’s POV)The moment the conference room doors shut behind me, I let out a slow breath. The tension from the meeting still lingers in my muscles, a dull, pressing weight that refuses to ease. The measures we settled on were the best possible outcome given the circumstances, but it doesn’t make the decisions any less difficult. People’s lives will be affected, and the responsibility sits squarely on my shoulders.Jordan walks beside me as we head back to my office. He’s silent, but I know him well enough to recognize when he’s studying me. The slight furrow in his brows, the way his fingers drum lightly against his tablet—he’s waiting for the right moment to say something.As soon as we step into my office, I shrug off my suit jacket and drape it over the back of my chair. Jordan closes the door behind him but doesn’t take a seat. Instead, he leans against the edge of my desk, arms crossed over his chest.“You look like hell,” he says.I arch a brow. “And here I thought you called