Ethan's POV
My phone won't stop ringing.
I silence it for the fifth time as I ride the elevator up to my apartment. It's past midnight and I'm exhausted. Three days of meetings with Vivienne have left my head spinning and my conscience screaming.
The problem is, seeing Vivienne again isn't what I thought it would be.
I spent five years building her up in my head as this perfect woman I lost. The love of my life who got away. But now that she's actually here, sitting across from me, touching my arm, looking at me with those eyes... something feels wrong.
She talks too much about money. About my success. About how "we" could be so powerful together now that I've "made it big."
Nothing about love. Nothing about missing me. Just strategy and status and power.
But I can't shake the feeling I'm supposed to want this. I'm supposed to want her. I spent five years mourning her, didn't I?
The elevator opens and I walk down the hallway to my apartment. Our apartment. Mine and Isla's.
Isla.
Guilt twists in my stomach. Sweet, quiet Isla who never asks for anything. Who makes my coffee exactly right. Who listens when I talk about work. Who fits so easily into my life without demanding anything.
I know I've been distant lately. I know I should talk to her about Vivienne showing up. But every time I try, the words get stuck.
How do I explain that I'm confused? That I don't know what I want anymore? That the woman I thought I'd love forever feels like a stranger, but I can't stop wondering if it's just because too much time has passed?
Tomorrow. I'll talk to Isla tomorrow and figure everything out. I'll be honest with her. She deserves that much.
I unlock the apartment door and step inside.
It's dark. Completely dark.
"Isla?" I call out, flipping on the lights.
No answer.
That's strange. She's always home by now. Usually in bed reading or watching TV.
"Isla? You here?"
Still nothing.
I walk into the kitchen and freeze.
There's a note on the counter. White paper, my name written on top in Isla's neat handwriting.
My heart starts pounding before I even pick it up. Something about that piece of paper feels final.
I unfold it with shaking hands and read:
Ethan,
I won't be your stand-in. I won't be the woman you settle for while wishing I was someone else. Find happiness with the one you truly love. She's been waiting for you.
Don't try to find me. I'm done being invisible.
Goodbye,Isla
The paper slips from my hands.
No.
No, no, no.
"ISLA!" I shout, running through the apartment. "This isn't funny! Where are you?"
The bedroom is empty. The bathroom is empty. Her office—empty.
I throw open the closet and my stomach drops. Her clothes are gone. Her suitcases are gone. Her shoes, her books, her laptop—all gone.
But everything I ever bought her is still here. Every designer purse, every piece of jewelry, every expensive dress—all piled on the bed like garbage she couldn't wait to get rid of.
My chest feels tight. I can't breathe properly.
I grab my phone and call her. It rings once, then goes straight to voicemail.
"Isla, it's me. Please call me back. Whatever you think you know, we can talk about it. Please. Just... please call me."
I try again. Voicemail.
Again. Voicemail.
I text her: "Where are you? Come home. We need to talk."
The message shows as delivered but not read.
I call my assistant Jennifer, not caring that it's past midnight. She answers on the second ring, sounding wide awake.
"Mr. Blackwell?"
"Find Isla Monroe," I say, my voice coming out harsh and desperate. "I need her location. Now."
There's a pause. "Sir, I... I can't do that."
"What do you mean you can't? Use whatever resources you need. I don't care what it costs."
"It's not about cost, Mr. Blackwell." Jennifer's voice sounds strange. Cold. "I mean I won't do that. Ms. Monroe deserves her privacy."
I'm too shocked to respond for a moment. Jennifer has worked for me for four years and never refused a single request.
"Jennifer—"
"I'm sorry, sir. If that's all, I'll see you in the morning for your 8 AM meeting." She hangs up.
I stare at my phone in disbelief. What the hell is happening?
I read Isla's note again, focusing on one specific line: "I won't be your stand-in."
Stand-in. That word hits differently the second time.
How did she know? I never told her about my confusion. Never mentioned that I was comparing her to Vivienne. I was so careful to keep my feelings hidden.
Unless...
My blood runs cold.
Unless she saw us. Unless she heard something.
I think back over the last three days. Where did I meet with Vivienne? My office. Restaurants. That coffee shop near—
The lunch. Yesterday. Vivienne met me at my office for lunch.
Isla texted me yesterday morning saying she'd be in the area. I told her I was too busy to meet.
What if she came anyway? What if she saw Vivienne in my office?
Oh God. What did she hear?
I remember holding Vivienne's hand yesterday when she got emotional talking about her divorce. I remember how close we sat. I remember Vivienne touching my face and me not pulling away because some stupid part of me wanted to feel something—anything—like what I used to feel.
If Isla saw that...
I sink onto the couch, the note still in my hand.
My phone buzzes. For a moment, hope flares—maybe it's Isla.
But it's Vivienne: "Can't sleep. Keep thinking about our conversation today. I'm so happy you're finally ready to move forward with us. See you at 8 AM tomorrow to make it official"
Make it official.
The meeting tomorrow. The one with the lawyer.
Vivienne thinks I'm choosing her. She thinks tomorrow I'm going to officially end things with Isla and start over with her.
Is that what I want?
Looking around this empty apartment—at the note, at the rejected gifts, at the space where Isla used to exist—I suddenly don't know anything anymore.
I was so focused on figuring out my feelings for Vivienne that I never stopped to examine my feelings for Isla.
Quiet, patient Isla who somehow made my life work without me even noticing. Who knew my coffee order and listened to my problems and never, ever asked me for more than I was willing to give.
Who loved me without conditions while I kept her at arm's length, just in case Vivienne came back.
And now she's gone.
My phone rings. Unknown number. I answer immediately.
"Isla?"
"Mr. Blackwell?" A male voice. "This is Detective Morrison from the NYPD. I'm calling because we have a situation involving Ms. Isla Monroe."
My heart stops. "What situation? Is she okay?"
"That's what we're trying to determine, sir. Her business partner Marcus Chen filed a missing persons report two hours ago. He says she left your residence today under suspicious circumstances and he's concerned for her safety."
"She's not missing," I say quickly. "She left by choice. I have a note—"
"Mr. Blackwell, Mr. Chen has provided us with some concerning information. Including evidence that Ms. Monroe received threats recently. Threats that may be connected to your business dealings."
"What threats? What are you talking about?"
"We'll need to ask you some questions, sir. Can you come down to the station?"
"I'm not going anywhere until you tell me if Isla is safe!"
"We don't know where she is, Mr. Blackwell. That's the problem." The detective's voice gets harder. "And according to Mr. Chen, you're the last person who saw her before she disappeared."
The implication hits me like a punch.
They think I did something to her.
"This is insane. I would never hurt Isla. I—" I stop, the words catching in my throat.
"You what, Mr. Blackwell?"
I close my eyes, and for the first time in three days, my mind is completely clear.
"I love her," I whisper. "I love her and I'm an idiot who didn't realize it until she was gone."
"Then I suggest you help us find her, sir. Before something worse happens."
"Worse? What do you mean worse?"
The detective's next words make my blood turn to ice:
"We have reason to believe Ms. Monroe may be in danger. And you might be the only person who knows why."