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 last of the heat hisses away beneath the gold band as I quench it, setting the tongs down and peeling off my gloves. My workshop has grown cold, the shadows long and stretched. The overhead light buzzes faintly above me, casting a muted glow over my tools and the half-finished designs strewn across the bench. For a moment, everything is quiet. Still.But then I hear it.The low hum of an engine outside. Idle. Steady.I stiffen.There aren’t supposed to be any cars out here—at least not this late, not this deep into the property. This workshop is tucked far behind the main Glimmr building, its location carefully omitted from all but a select few internal maps. Carter doesn’t even have the coordinates. The place is meant to be my sanctuary.I slip off the apron and wipe my hands on a cloth, my ears straining to catch more.Silence again.I step outside into the night. The air is sharp with the promise of rain, cool against my sweat-damp skin. The gravel crunches beneath
Ethan's POVThe fire’s gone. Days have passed. But in my head, it still burns. And the memory of the fire crackling and hissing as I'd watched the short clip leaves me in complete satisfaction.I’m in my apartment tonight. Curtains drawn tight. The only light comes from this weak, flickering lamp in the corner. Shadows stretch across the floor like they’re reaching for me.I let them.I like the quiet. The isolation. It gives me room to think — and God, I’ve been thinking.My laptop glows in front of me. News reports. Articles. Whispers on social media. All of them screaming about Glimmr. About the fire. About the damage.No leads. No suspects.The thugs — they’d really been good at their job.They'd truly delivered. Exactly how I wanted it.I run a hand through my hair — it’s a mess — and let a slow smirk tug at my mouth.Two workshops. Reduced to ash. Dwight’s precious little empire gutted overnight. Everything he built — torched.And yet… I still feel empty.Because he’s still brea
Leah's POVCece wraps her fingers around her coffee cup as I stand to leave. There’s warmth in her gaze, but she doesn't push me to stay longer. She never does. That's the thing about Cece—she's always known when to speak, when to stay silent, and when to step aside. There are parts of my life I don't even need to explain to her anymore. She just knows.“Call me when you get home?” she says, eyes flicking up.I nod. “I will. Thanks for this. For... grounding me.”She smiles, but there's something pained in the curve of her lips. “Go. Don’t keep him waiting. You know how he gets.”I do.The thought alone is enough to quicken my steps. I slide into my car and head home, my fingers already twitching for the straightener. It's ridiculous, really—how many years have passed since I moved out of my father's house, since I began building a life of my own? And yet, the moment a dinner invitation arrives from him, I revert. Instinctively. Unquestionably.The apartment is quiet when I step in. M
Leah's POVThere's a moment of silence between us as Father studies the menu. I stay quiet, knowing that he doesn't like to make small talk when browsing through the options of the meal to order.However, he asks without looking up, "How have you been?"I blink. I must've misheard.That question doesn't come from him. Not first, not ever. Especially not when browsing through the menu."I've been… okay," I reply slowly, still not fully believing this is happening.He nods, glancing at me, his green eyes, very much like mine, assessing me before he returns to the menu.I steel myself for the moment he glances over it and waves it aside to order for both of us. It's how these dinners usually go. He selects, I smile and thank him, and the night continues under his direction.Except this time, he sets the menu in front of me."You should try something you like," he says. "They have an interesting range. Judith said the duck is nice, but I saw burgers too."I raise an eyebrow. "You're not o
Ethan's POV Evening sits on my shoulders like a soaked coat—heavy, suffocating. I’ve been pacing the same strip of carpeted floor in my living room for over an hour now, waiting for a call that hasn’t come. The phone’s on the table, screen face up, and every time it lights up, I nearly twist my neck snapping around to check it. Still nothing. No message. No threat. No update.Silence.That thug should’ve called by now. Should’ve sent a text, a picture, something. Proof that the housekeeper was taken. That the job was done. I paid good money for swift execution, not radio silence.But here I am. Waiting.I rake both hands through my hair, frustration buzzing in my jaw. And underneath it, something worse—fear. Not the surface kind either. The real kind. The kind that crawls under your skin and pulses against your ribcage. The kind that knows you crossed a line too deep to walk back from.I shouldn’t have laid hands on her.My housekeeper. The annoyingly curious woman who never knew whe
Leah’s POV The door to Dwight's office clicks shut behind me, the sound final, almost hollow. I take the stairs down this time instead of the elevator, needing movement, needing the air, needing anything that isn’t Dwight’s silence echoing in my ears.The moment I step outside, the city air hits me. Not quite fresh, not quite foul—just New York, as usual. The wind tosses my hair as I walk toward my Audi, fingers curling tighter around the keys. My heels click against the pavement, each step a drumbeat of emotion I refuse to name. I slide into the driver’s seat, shut the door, and stare through the windshield.For a long moment, I just sit there. Let the noise of the street muffle into background static. Dwight's office felt like a closing chapter, the kind of ending I hadn’t prepared for, no matter how many times I told myself I was over him.I hadn't expected him to be so cold. Or to take the resignation so seriously.I shut my eyes as I recall the outburst in his conference room, a
Ethan's POV The knock comes hard—three quick raps against the front door. I glance up from the laptop screen, where Leah's pictures are littered all over. I'd saved dozens and dozens of pictures since we'd gotten together. Way before we got together...Leah had always been a fantasy. A delightful woman. A sweet little reward I couldn't wait to have—The knock comes again, harder this time, interrupting my thoughts.I don’t call out to announce that the door’s open. I don’t have to. The bastard walks in like he owns the place—like every lock and latch is beneath him. The air changes when he enters. Heavy. Stale. The scent of sweat and something coppery clings to him like a second skin.He steps into the living room, boots leaving faint marks on the pristine tile. His jacket is slung low, his knuckles scraped and red. And I notice—he sees the broken bottle near the bar, the puddle of whiskey dark against the floor. His eyes pass over it, but he doesn’t mention it. Good. Smart."Where a
Dwight’s POVThe moment I see her, my chest tightens.I hadn’t expected her to show up. Not after everything that happened in Greece. Not after the things I said—the things I should never have said. And yet, here she is. Standing right by my desk, not flinching, not hesitating, not saying a word.I don’t know why she’s here. Maybe it’s the fire. Maybe she heard about the damage and thought I needed... what, comfort? Closure? Pity?I glance beyond her shoulder toward the office door, where Jordan and the two security consultants had exited just moments before. They had barely left when Carter quietly motioned toward her, and now she’s standing in my office, looking as composure as ever. I take a moment to study her, taking in the long gray skirt that hugs her in the laugh places, as well as the I wey silk blouse that molds against her frame. My eyes linger around her chest and the memory of how delectable she'd looked that night in her hotel room back in Greece bombards. I suddenly
Leah’s POV I’ve been waiting for over an hour.At first, I was patient. Understanding, even. Maybe he was caught up. Maybe something urgent had come up. Maybe Carter had forgotten to let me know that Dwight would be a while. But now—now I’m just restless.My fingers tap incessantly against the arm of the leather chair. The soft whoosh of the central air system is the only sound in the room, aside from the ticking of the minimalist wall clock. I’ve checked my phone more times than I care to admit. No messages. No missed calls.I've tried to keep myself occupied with a few word games, but not even that can keep me from overthinking.Does Dwight even want me here? Had he truly written me off after he left Greece?I think about that night again... About his confession, those brutal truths I'd stopped myself from thinking about, afraid that if I did, I'd go insane. Or worse...I'd realize that maybe Dwight was truly not the problem. Maybe it was me all along. Maybe it was my impatience...
Ethan's POVThe rage hasn't left me.It's still pulsing—white-hot and unrelenting—beneath my skin like magma, ready to erupt. I pace the floor, each step echoing against the marble tiles. My fingers twitch restlessly. Every few seconds, I glance down at my phone. The last message I had sent him stares mockingly back at me.Did she look... happy?I want to know more than anything. Had my absence in her life caused her to sigh out in relief?Was she mourning me—the way she had mourned Dwight? Or was I just a pesky fly she had been dying to get rid of?I scan my phone screen again... waiting... anticipating. But no text bubble shoots up, nothing to indicate that the thug is getting ready to respond.He'd better not be messing with me. If he's holding out, making me wait on purpose, I'll break his damn face the next time I see him.I'm not in the mood.Not when Leah's out there, gallivanting like nothing happened. Like she hadn't just ghosted me, like she hadn't stopped picking my calls,
Ethan's POVI can’t sit still.The leather beneath me creaks every damn time I shift, but it’s not enough to keep me grounded. My knee bounces like a drumbeat I can’t silence, my hands clench and unclench around the phone that hasn’t given me a single update. Not one. Not from her. Not from anyone.I glance at the screen again. Nothing. Just the cold glow of the home screen mocking me.No missed calls. No new messages from Leah. Nothing.I swipe up, check our last conversation for the hundredth time. It was brief. Distant. Polite. The kind of message you send to someone you’ve decided not to love anymore. I start typing a new one—Call me when you can—but delete it before it gets the chance to sit in her inbox unread.She won't reply. She’s completely shut me out. Has probably moved on by now.I toss the phone beside me on the couch, but the emptiness of my palm instantly drives me insane. I snatch it back. My thumb hovers over the contact marked Unknown—a number I’ve memorized, though
Leah's POVI linger by the window longer than necessary, clutching my now lukewarm mug of tea. I find myself shifting back to thoughts of Dwight.He hadn’t called.Carter had picked up when I called the office. Polite but clinical, offering no details other than "He's in a meeting." And after that—nothing. No follow-up. No text. No call. No acknowledgment that I’d reached out at all.The ache in my chest is one I’m becoming familiar with. It’s not loud. It doesn’t scream or demand attention. It’s subtle—like a soft pressing weight against my ribs, constant and steady.He’s avoiding me. I know it now.I leave the window and place the empty mug on the counter. The apartment feels too still now, too quiet despite the city noise spilling in through the glass. I can’t do this. I can’t sit here another minute wondering if he’s okay, if the fire has weighed on him, if he’s drowning in all of it alone.Decision made, I head back to the bedroom.I start getting ready for work.It feels strange
Leah's POVThe city glimmers beneath me, framed by floor-to-ceiling windows as I move through my penthouse. The marble tiles are cool against my bare feet, the soft hum of ambient jazz weaving through the quiet as I begin my nightly routine.In the en-suite bathroom, warm lights glow from behind a gilded mirror. I stand before it, slowly removing the remnants of the evening. Each product—cleansing oil, foaming wash, rose-infused toner—lines the counter like an artful arrangement, the routine itself a ritual of comfort. The heated towel beneath my fingertips is plush, indulgent. But tonight, the luxury feels secondary. My mind lingers elsewhere.Dinner with Dad.His warmth, though subtle, had unsettled me more than his silence ever did. It wasn’t just the way he asked about my welfare or offered to refill my glass—it was the effort. The intentionality behind every quiet gesture. For a man like Felix Carrington, even the smallest shift felt seismic.I dab my face dry and change into sof