Chapter Three : The loving denial.

LENA'S POV

The Whitmore family name had long been synonymous with power, wealth, and influence in Hudsonville, and tonight was no exception. The gala at the Grand Sterling Hotel was as extravagant as ever—glistening chandeliers dripped with crystals, the scent of imported roses perfumed the air, and the clinking of champagne glasses echoed over the hum of polite conversation. The Whitmores were the sole sponsors of the event, meaning my presence wasn’t just expected—it was required..

One of the few nights I have to pretend to be okay—okay in appearance, in the least.

Dressed in a deep emerald silk gown that clung to my frame, I glided through the ballroom, flashing empty smiles at guests I barely knew and exchanging pleasantries with business moguls and socialites who saw me as nothing more than a pawn in my family’s empire.

I had mastered the art of pretending. More of a lifestyle now.

Pretending to be interested in shallow conversations.

Pretending that I wasn’t suffocating under the weight of expectations.

Pretending that the whispers about my arranged marriage to Harlin Cartwright didn’t make me sick.

But what I hadn’t prepared for was the ghost standing across the room.

I looked intricately towards where he stood. We locked in eye contact.

No. It can’t be.

At first, I thought it was just my mind playing tricks on me—the whiskey from earlier still muddling my senses. But as I turned my gaze back to the figure near the grand staircase, my breath caught in my throat.

Tall. Broad shoulders. A sharp jawline. Dark, unruly hair. The way he moved—calculated, confident, yet somehow effortless.

I knew that walk. It was too hard to ignore.

I knew that face.

Even if it had been five years since I last saw him.

My fingers gripped the champagne flute in my hand, the stem trembling slightly.

No. It couldn’t be.

Kian Davenport was dead. It was published that he was.

At least, that was what I had forced myself to believe. The love of my life, my would-be fiancé, had vanished without a trace five years ago, leaving nothing but speculation and a gaping wound in my heart. I had spent months searching, hoping, refusing to believe he was truly gone. And then, the rumors of his death had started. The ocean had taken him, they said. No body. No closure. Just emptiness.

And yet, here he was, smiling to guests, which I suspect their naivety in recognizing the once richest man in the city.

Standing in the same room as me.

My heart pounded against my ribs as I stepped forward, weaving through the sea of glittering gowns and tailored suits, my eyes never leaving him.

He turned slightly, speaking to a man beside him, and the moment I saw his face in full view, the air was sucked from my lungs.

It was him. It was definitely him.

The same piercing gray eyes. The same sharp cheekbones. But something was different.

His once-warm gaze was now unreadable, like a locked vault. His presence, once magnetic, felt colder—more distant. He looked like Kian, moved like Kian, but something inside me whispered that this was not the same man I had loved.

Something had changed.

Still, I had to know.

I had to hear his voice.

Closing the distance between us, I reached him just as he turned away from his conversation.

“Kian?” My voice was barely above a whisper, but it felt like a scream in my chest.

The man stilled, his body rigid for a fraction of a second before he turned to face me.

His expression was blank. Impassive. Like he was looking at a stranger.

The way he looked at me shattered all hope I had reser

I swallowed hard, my throat tightening. “It’s you,” I said, my voice more certain now.

A flicker of something—recognition?—flashed in his eyes, but it was gone before I could grasp it.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice deeper, colder than I remembered. “Do I know you?”

My blood ran cold.

The air around me felt suddenly suffocating.

I took a shaky step closer, my fingers itching to reach out, to touch him, to prove to myself that this wasn’t a hallucination. “Kian,” I breathed. “It’s me. Lena.”

His jaw tightened, his expression giving nothing away. “You must be mistaken.”

A sharp, humorless laugh escaped me. “Mistaken? You disappeared, and now, after all these years, you’re standing in front of me, pretending like I don’t exist?”

His gray eyes darkened. “I don’t know who you are.”

The words hit like a slap.

I took a step back, my chest tightening, my pulse roaring in my ears.

This wasn’t real. This wasn’t happening.

Kian was dead. Or at least, he had been for the last five years in my world. And yet, here he was, standing before me, erasing me like I was a stranger.

I studied his face, searching for a crack in the mask he was wearing, for even the slightest hint of the man I once knew. But he was composed—too composed.

Too perfect in his denial.

A thousand questions burned inside me. Where had he been? Why had he disappeared? Why was he lying?

But as I opened my mouth to demand answers, something in his posture shifted—subtle, but deliberate. A warning.

Not here. Not now.

He wanted me to let it go.

My heart wrenched at the thought, but I forced myself to swallow the lump in my throat.

Fine. If this was the game he wanted to play, I’d play it.

I straightened my shoulders, masking the storm raging inside me. “I see,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “My mistake.”

Kian—or whoever he was now—held my gaze for a long moment before giving a curt nod. And then, without another word, he turned and disappeared into the crowd.

I stood frozen, my hands trembling at my sides. The entire room felt too bright, too loud, too unreal.

I needed to leave. I needed air. I needed—

“Miss Whitmore?”

I blinked, snapping back to reality as a waiter appeared beside me, holding a tray of food.

“Would you like an hors d’oeuvre?” he asked politely, oblivious to the chaos unraveling inside me.

I hesitated for only a second before nodding. “Yes. Thank you.”

I reached for a small plate of delicately arranged scallops, my fingers steadying as I focused on the simple act of eating.

Chew. Swallow. Breathe.

I refused to look up. Refused to let my eyes scan the crowd for him.

Kian Davenport was dead.

At least, that was the truth I had forced myself to believe for five years.

And tonight, I had seen his ghost.

At least he wasn’t dead.

I focused on the delicate scallops on my plate, each bite forcing my mind away from the ghost of Kian Davenport. The buttery richness of the dish melted on my tongue, but it tasted like nothing. My thoughts kept pulling me back to him, to the cold way he looked at me, the sharpness of his voice as he denied knowing me.

Who was he trying to fool?

But I had learned the art of pretending from the best—my own family. So I swallowed my questions along with the last bite of food, wiped my lips with a linen napkin, and forced myself to stand tall.

A tap on my shoulder brought me back to the present. I turned to see Mr. Langston, a key investor in one of my late father’s ventures, flanked by two other men I recognized from the business world.

“Miss Whitmore,” Langston greeted me with a smooth smile. “Your family has outdone themselves yet again. This event is quite the success.”

I gave him the well-practiced Whitmore smile. “Thank you, Mr. Langston. We’re always honored to host such esteemed guests.”

He nodded approvingly. “And, of course, we all know the highlight of the night will be your award.”

I stilled, keeping my expression neutral. “My award?”

Langston chuckled. “Oh, come now. You didn’t hear? The Whitmore heiress being recognized for her contributions to business innovation? Everyone knows.”

I had suspected that my grandfather had arranged something to highlight my achievements, but hearing it confirmed sent a rush of mixed emotions through me. Pride. Expectation. Obligation.

And beneath it all, the distant hum of something else.