Ethan Lawson pressed his hands against the glass wall of his penthouse, staring at the city lights spread out beneath him. Towers of steel and glass glittered in the night, proof of the empire he had built, but none of it gave him comfort.
Behind him, the conference table was covered with contracts worth more money than he could ever spend. He hadn't touched them in weeks. His pen had run dry long before his will did.
The guilt stayed with him everywhere he went. It clung to his clothes, to the silence in his home, to the weight on his chest every time he thought about the accident. The crash played in broken pieces in his mind, headlights in the rain, twisted metal, the phone vibrating on the seat beside them, then silence. No skid marks. No chance. Too perfect to be an accident.
He pushed a hand through his hair, the strands rough and unwashed. His tie hung loose, his once-tailored suit too tight now. Outside, the traffic roared like an ocean, but here, the air felt heavy, like the walls were closing in.
They had called it an accident. He didn't believe them. And every night, fueled by bitter coffee and the glow of his laptop, he searched for answers. Somewhere out there was the person who had taken his family. Somewhere out there was the man he had to find.
A few blocks away, Isabela Bankola bent over a gown at Vivienne Couture, the smell of fabric and steam filling the air. Her hands moved quickly, pinning the hem with practiced care. Around her, the showroom was alive, phones ringing, heels clicking, designers shouting over each other. For her, it was both inspiring and exhausting.
The scholarship that had brought her here was about to end, and without it, her dream of becoming a designer would slip away. She worked harder than anyone, but she knew hard work wasn't always enough.
She was focused on her stitching when voices drifted from Vivienne Scott's office.
"What time is your flight tomorrow?" Vivienne asked, her tone firm but casual.
"In the morning," Clara, the senior stylist, replied. "But what about Lawson?"
Vivienne didn't hesitate. "Isabela will take Ethan Lawson's measurements."
The needle slipped in Isabela's hand, pricking her finger. Ethan Lawson. She had seen his face in magazines, on billboards, in news stories about the tragedy that had struck his family. And now she was supposed to walk into his world. Clara's expression darkened for a moment, but she said nothing.
Minutes later, Vivienne called Isabela into her office. The older woman's desk was neat, her smile sharp. She handed Isabela a sleek dress. "You're going to Ethan Lawson's penthouse. He's one of our top clients. Look the part."
Isabela held the dress carefully. She wanted to ask about her scholarship, about her future, but Vivienne brushed her off with a promise to "discuss it later."
Later. Always later.
Clutching the dress, Isabela left the office with her heart racing. She had already dealt with her fair share of wealthy clients and their arrogance, their sharp words, their endless demands, the way they looked at her like she was invisible until they needed something fixed. Ethan Lawson, she assumed, would be no different. She went straight to the salon and then home to get ready for the big day.