The scent of sandalwood and aged bourbon clung to the Sterling penthouse like a second skin. City lights flickered against rain-slick glass as Michael Sterling stood in silence, his reflection faint in the towering windows.
Behind him, Elliot's bare feet made no sound against the marble. He crossed the open-plan living room in a silk robe, a glass of deep red wine balanced in his elegant fingers.
"You've been quiet all evening," Elliot said finally, his tone soft but edged like the blade of a knife.
Michael's eyes didn't leave the city. "The board meeting ran late."
"They're still pestering you to remarry?"
Michael's jaw tightened. "They call it 'stability.'"
Elliot's lips curved in a bitter smile as he approached, his robe swishing softly. "You already have Alexander. A son, an heir. That should have been enough for them."
"It's not."
"They're vultures." Elliot brushed a finger down Michael's arm, possessive in its gentleness. "Marry again, let them parade their perfect image. But we both know where your real home is."
Michael said nothing, though his hand tightened on the glass.
Elliot's voice softened dangerously. "You don't need their leash, Michael. I'm here. Always. I've been the one beside you through every fire."
The words slid over Michael's skin like silk, but beneath them lay steel. He thought of Alexander—his son asleep in a nursery at the Sterling estate, his soft breathing, his tiny hand gripping Michael's finger.
And he thought of Rameena.
Her laugh, unrestrained. Her stubbornness when she argued over his tie color. The way she smelled like vanilla and sunlight after hugging Alexander.
"She's dead," Michael said, forcing the words out.
"Then let her memory die too." Elliot's hand cupped his jaw, tilting it slightly. "You belong to me now. Not her. Not them. Me."
Michael didn't flinch, but a sliver of ice ran down his spine.
---
The rain had soaked Ruth's hoodie clean through, and her shoes squelched with every step. She tugged her delivery bag closer as wind whipped past, bringing with it the scent of roasted duck and damp concrete.
Every step hurt. But she kept moving.
She had survived worse.
I was poisoned in my own home. Betrayed by my husband. Burned in silence.
Not this time.
---
Her tiny apartment smelled faintly of mold. Ruth sat cross-legged on the threadbare rug, a battered notebook open on her knees, pen flying over the pages.
Campus cleaning service… high demand, low startup…
Tutoring… fast cash…
Target Sterling subsidiaries: minor executives, assistants, potential weak links.
She rubbed her eyes, her chest tightening at the thought of Alexander.
Is he eating well? Sleeping okay? Does he still call for me?
"Ruth."
The voice startled her. Mirabel stood in the doorway, holding two steaming cups of instant noodles.
"You didn't eat again."
"I wasn't hungry," Ruth said.
"You're lying."
Mirabel set the cups down and crossed her arms. "You're working yourself to death. You don't laugh anymore. You don't cry either. And your eyes…" She trailed off. "They're colder. Like you're someone else."
Ruth froze.
For a moment, the icy Rameena side wanted to deflect, to snap, to shut her out. But then she looked at Mirabel—this girl who had sat by her hospital bed, who had paid her bills, who had been her anchor in this unfamiliar life.
"I'm sorry," Ruth said softly. "You've done so much for me. I see that now."
Mirabel blinked in surprise.
"I'm trying to find my footing," Ruth continued. "It's not just about survival anymore. It's… something bigger. But I can't do it alone. I need you, Mira."
Mirabel sat down beside her, visibly relaxing. "You've always had me."
"Always?"
"Always."
Ruth's lips curved faintly. This wasn't just friendship. It was an alliance. One forged in quiet apartments and instant noodles.
---
Sterling Holdings' upper floors hummed with muted voices and polished shoes on marble.
"Mr. Sterling?"
Damien didn't look up from the rain-streaked window. "What is it, Julia?"
"Your father has arranged another dinner. Tomorrow evening. 7 PM. The Gainsborough daughter."
"Charming," Damien muttered.
Julia hesitated. "Should I send the usual regrets, sir?"
"No." Damien exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. "I'll go. It's easier than another argument."
"Very good, sir."
As her heels clicked away, Damien leaned his forehead against the cool glass.
Another dinner. Another plastic smile. Another night pretending I'm not still haunted by a woman who's gone.
The rain outside blurred neon lights into watercolor streaks as Damien grabbed his coat and stepped into the night.
The sleek Sterling car waited, black paint slick with rain. He lit a cigarette, the ember briefly illuminating his sharp features.
"She's gone," he whispered.
But deep in his chest, something hollow murmured: What if she isn't?