The taxi slid through the early morning traffic, Isabella clinging to the seatbelt like it could anchor her to reality. The city outside blurred past, tall glass towers catching the first weak rays of sun, shining like a world she no longer belonged to.
She buried her face in her hands, trying to piece together what had happened the night before. One minute she had been drowning sorrows over a broken engagement, the next… she woke up in a stranger's bed, his presence cold and terrifying.
And now the envelope and card haunted her memory. The money he had offered her wasn't just an insult—it was a declaration: she was nothing to him.
Her phone vibrated in her bag. She ignored it. Any message from her old life would be a reminder of everything she had lost. She needed space. She needed distance. She needed silence.
She pulled the strap of her coat tighter around herself. The city seemed too loud, too bright. Each honking horn, each rushing pedestrian, each passing luxury car reminded her of a world she didn't belong to. Not anymore.
The office she walked into looked small and ordinary compared to the night she had left behind. Grey walls, stacks of paperwork, fluorescent lights buzzing softly overhead. It was safe. It was mundane. It was everything he was not.
"Morning, Izzy," Olivia Sinclair called from behind her desk. A warm smile, a touch of amusement, and a small mug of coffee. "You look… rough."
Isabella smiled faintly. "Rough doesn't even begin to cover it." She didn't tell Olivia about the stranger, the suit, the words, or the money. That was a secret she would carry alone.
As she sipped the coffee, she felt a creeping unease settle over her chest. Something about last night… someone… lingered in her mind. A shadow she couldn't shake.
Meanwhile, across the city, Sebastian Blackwood was already at work, his office on the 52nd floor overlooking the skyline. Marcus Hayes stood silently by the glass wall, a tablet in his hands.
"Sir, shall I schedule a meeting with… the woman from last night?" Marcus asked carefully, though he had already seen her name on the credit card receipt tied to a hotel reservation.
Sebastian didn't flinch. Not yet. But his jaw tightened, a vein ticking in his temple. He turned to look at the city below, the streets alive and unaware. "No," he said finally. "Not yet. Let her disappear for now. But find her. Make sure she can't vanish completely."
Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Sir, you don't even know her name."
Sebastian's dark eyes flicked toward him. "I don't care."
Back at Isabella's office, she tried to focus on work. Typing, answering emails, attending a dull meeting about quarterly reports—it was all meaningless. Her thoughts kept drifting back to him.
Sebastian Blackwood.
Even the name didn't feel real yet. She didn't know his face as anything more than a shadow, but somehow, he had already left a mark. She swallowed hard, trying to push the thought away.
Her phone buzzed again. A message from an unknown number: "Leave town. Forget last night."
Her hands froze on the keyboard. Her heart thudded.
She didn't respond. She couldn't.
Olivia noticed. "Something wrong?"
"No," Isabella said, voice tight. "Just… spam."
But deep down, she knew it wasn't.
That night, Isabella walked the streets alone. The city felt alive, unforgiving. Neon lights flickered on the corners, advertising lifestyles she would never have. She paused in front of a boutique window, catching her reflection—messy hair, pale face, eyes shadowed with worry. She looked like a ghost of herself.
She didn't notice the sleek black car that followed her at a distance.
Sebastian sat inside, hands clasped together, jaw tight. Watching. Waiting. A predator, patient and deliberate.
Something inside him burned. A sense of ownership he had never felt. She was untouchable, yet already his. He didn't know her name. He didn't care. All he knew was that she had stepped into his life, and he would not let her go.
Back in her apartment, Isabella locked the door and leaned against it, trembling. She poured herself a glass of water, her fingers shaking. The envelope from the morning still sat on the counter. Money. Power. Control.
She felt violated—not by touch, but by intention. By his cold, meticulous way of erasing her, of leaving her with nothing but the choice to forget.
"I can do this alone," she whispered. "I have to."
And she did. For now.