The rain lashed hard against the penthouse windows, grey sheets blurring the glittering skyline. Once, this view had inspired Steven Ross—his domain spread beneath him like a kingdom of lights. Now, it looked like a graveyard of fading promises.
Steven sat alone in the den, the fire crackling low, the scent of scotch clinging to his breath. The tailored navy suit he wore looked rumpled, his tie abandoned, shirt collar open. His once-sharp features had begun to sink—eyes red-rimmed from restless nights, lines deepening at the corners of his mouth. His hand trembled as he reached for the glass again.
His company—Ross International—was crumbling.
Contracts were delayed, some abruptly terminated. Trusted partners pulled out. A scandal involving misappropriated funds—minor, but enough to shake confidence—made headlines for days. The markets began whispering. Board members began to talk.
Steven wasn't a fool. He knew what was happening.
It had started the day Helen walked out.
She had been more than a wife—she was the balance behind his ambition, the one who caught the errors, softened the sharpness in his speeches, and foresaw the consequences of his pride. Without her, his empire had no heart. Without her, the cracks widened, and now everything was falling through.
He leaned forward, burying his face in his hands.
Tears—real, hot, bitter—slipped down his cheeks.
God, Helen… what did I do?
He thought of her laugh in the early days. How she stayed up with him during his first failed pitch, encouraging him with coffee and calm words. How she smiled even when he forgot anniversaries, brushing it off with grace. How she had shielded him from his own recklessness again and again.
And how he threw it all away for a younger woman who now barely returned his calls.
He opened his phone, stared at her name in his contacts for what felt like hours. Then—hands shaking—he typed:
Steven: Helen. I know I'm the last person you want to hear from. But I miss you. God, I miss you. Everything's falling apart here. And I can't stop thinking about how much of me—of this—was because of you. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I should have fought for you, not failed you.
He stared at the blinking cursor, then added:
Steven: You always believed in me. I didn't deserve it. I just… wish I could see you. Talk to you. Just once.
He hit send before he could stop himself.
The message was marked "delivered."
But no reply came.
He stared at the screen until it blurred with tears.
---
Meanwhile, across the city, Helen stood in Élan's design studio—flanked by fabric rolls, mood boards, and a quiet ache in her chest she couldn't name. She had seen the message, read every word, and tucked her phone into her desk drawer without response.
Steven's regret rang hollow now. Still, it stirred old wounds.
What pained her more was the silence growing between her and Sebastian.
Since their confrontation about Berlin and Celeste, things had shifted. Sebastian had become distant—not cold, but watchful, as though bracing for heartbreak. And Helen, torn between logic and fear, found herself overanalyzing every look, every word, wondering if Jennifer's warning had been true.
That doubt clung to her like perfume she couldn't wash off.
And Jennifer wasn't done yet.
She watched from the sidelines, unseen but ever-present, like a phantom wrapped in silk and frost.
Her next move was simple but sharp—an anonymous tip to a local fashion blog. A blurred photo of Sebastian with Celeste Quinn, taken years ago, deliberately paired with a headline:
"Helen Ross's Mystery Man Tied to Fraud Scandal Abroad?"
The story was vague. Unconfirmed. But suggestive enough to spark questions.
Helen saw it two days later—sent anonymously to her inbox.
The photo. The article. The poisoned seed now blooming.
She stared at the screen, her chest tightening.
What if I've made another mistake?
And in that moment of hesitation, Jennifer smiled.
The web was working. And Steven, lost in his regret and ruin, had no idea that his attempt to win Helen back was already sinking her deeper into deception.
---
The café on Lexington Avenue was warm and filled with the scent of cinnamon, coffee, and the muffled laughter of strangers. Helen Ross sat at a corner booth, tucked into a deep maroon sweater, her fingers curled around a cappuccino she hadn't touched. Outside, snow flurried softly against the windows, but inside, the air was tense with the weight of her thoughts.
Across from her, Anita stirred her tea with a clink, watching Helen with narrowed eyes.
"You're saying someone left documents?" she asked, her tone cautious. "A woman from his past, a fraud accusation, Berlin—all of that just… showed up?"
Helen nodded slowly, eyes rimmed with exhaustion. "First from Jennifer, then anonymously online. I tried to dismiss it at first, but… what if it's true? What if I walked into another illusion?"
Beside Anita, Lilian frowned. "But why would Jennifer care? She's never cared about you—only Steven's image. Why would she suddenly try to 'protect' you from a man she's never met?"
That silence made Helen pause.
"She said she wanted to be civil," Helen murmured. "Said Sebastian had a history I needed to know before getting more involved."
Elizabeth, who had been quietly watching, finally spoke—her voice calm, precise, like a gentle bell in a storm.
"Sounds like a classic misdirection," she said. "When someone loses control, they manipulate. Steven's unraveling. Jennifer's his weapon."
Helen looked down at her coffee, lips tightening. "But what about the photo? The woman—Celeste—she's real. There was a case."
Elizabeth leaned in, eyes unwavering. "And you said Sebastian didn't deny it. He admitted to his mistakes. He didn't lie. He didn't run. Can you say the same about Steven when he was caught?"
Helen's chest tightened.
No. She couldn't.
Steven had evaded, twisted, and guilted. Sebastian had stood still, his hands open. He had looked hurt—but not caught.
"I don't know what to believe anymore," she whispered. "My heart says one thing, but my fear—my history—says another."
Anita reached across the table, resting a hand over hers. "Helen, you've rebuilt your world. You're not the same woman who let Steven convince her to disappear behind a perfect image. You see things now. If something feels wrong—trust yourself."
For the first time in days, Helen felt her chest expand.
A seed of clarity.
Sebastian had flaws—yes. But he had been present, honest, protective. He didn't promise her perfection. He gave her truth. And that, perhaps, was more terrifying than anything else—because it was real.
She stood suddenly, dropping a few bills on the table.
"I need to talk to him," she said. "Before I lose someone I might actually love."
---
Meanwhile, Sebastian stood alone in his apartment, pacing.
The article had reached him, of course. He wasn't surprised by the smear—but he was hurt by Helen's silence.
He had felt her pulling away—gentle at first, like a tide drawing back—but he knew it was more than doubt. It was someone else's hand in the shadows.
He grabbed his
coat and keys. If she wouldn't come to him, he would go to her.
He had something to say—something Jennifer hadn't accounted for.
The truth.