Ryan’s POV
I could feel sothing was catastrophically wrong the second Simon walked into my office. His face carried that particular shade of dread reserved for delivering news that would shatter my day—or my world.
"Mr. Blackwood," Simon said, his voice stretched thin with urgency, "we’ve located Claire’s apartnt. She’s the forr Elegant Realm employee who stole those design sketches. This morning she..." He swallowed hard, clearly dreading my reaction. "She physically attacked Mrs. Lancaster at the studio."
The world tilted off its axis.
Serena.
My heart didn’t just stop—it felt like soone had reached into my chest and crushed it. I shot to my feet so violently that my chair crashed backward. "What did you just say?"
"Mrs. Lancaster wasn’t injured. Security intervened quickly, and Claire was arrested," Simon continued, but I could barely process his words through the red haze clouding my vision. "But there’s more, sir. Claire publicly confessed to starting the fire at Fashion Week."
I blinked, my racing thoughts grinding to a halt. "Claire? That’s impossible."
Think, Ryan. Think.
My mind raced through everything I knew about that night—every detail I’d morized, every lead I’d followed. A dull ache started behind my temples as the pieces refused to align. Claire might have lit the match, but she wasn’t the mastermind. Soone else—soone with real power—had orchestrated Serena’s attempted murder.
And that soone was still out there.
"Take to Elegant Realm," I ordered, already striding toward the door. "Now."
Ryan’s Internal Storm:
Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes to get to her, and every second felt like an eternity stretched on a rack. My fingers drumd against my knee in a staccato rhythm that matched my thundering pulse.
She could have been killed. Again.
The thought clawed at like a living thing. Here was the woman I’d spent three years searching for, the woman I’d never stopped loving despite her complete rejection of our shared past—and she’d almost been taken from twice now.
What kind of man am I if I can’t even protect her?
All my resources, all my connections, all the power I’d accumulated—and she was still vulnerable. Still in danger. Still pushing away every ti I tried to help.
The irony was vicious. Serena had lost every mory of our marriage, our fights, our passion—but sohow she’d retained that devastating ability to cut down with a single glance.
When we finally arrived, I didn’t wait for Simon. I pushed through the glass doors like a man possessed, ignoring the whispers that erupted in my wake:
"Mr. Blackwood rushed here as soon as Mrs. Lancaster was attacked..."
"Didn’t he rescue her from the fire too?"
"But she’s married to Mr. Lancaster now..."
"Do you think he’s trying to steal her back?"
Let them talk. Their gossip ant nothing compared to seeing her safe.
She was curled on her office sofa, pencil hovering over a sketchbook, but her usual fierce concentration was absent. When she noticed , those familiar brows drew together—the sa expression she’d worn when we’d argue about her working too late, about taking risks, about her stubborn independence.
God, I’ve missed even her frowns.
"You—" she began, her voice a painful rasp that made my chest constrict.
"Don’t talk," I cut her off imdiately. "Rest your voice."
Relief flooded through like a dam bursting. She was here. She was whole. She was alive.
But she’s not mine anymore.
The thought hit like a physical blow, but I pushed it aside. Right now, her safety mattered more than my shattered heart.
"You should be at ho recovering," I said, unable to keep the accusation from my tone. "Why are you working?"
Because you’re still the sa stubborn woman who worked through a fever just to prove you could.
Her expression shifted from surprise to that familiar irritation—the look that had started a thousand argunts and ended in twice as many passionate reconciliations. But now there would be no passionate ending. Now she just wanted gone.
"Mr. Blackwood, you’re overstepping," she replied with arctic precision, setting her laptop aside like a judge dismissing evidence. "I’m busy. If you don’t have anything important to discuss, please leave."
Important? My wife had nearly been killed, and she was dismissing like an inconvenient stranger.
Because that’s all you are to her now.
The reminder was a knife between my ribs, but I couldn’t move. My feet had grown roots, anchored by three years of desperate hope and the crushing weight of seeing her look at with nothing but cool indifference.
"Do I need to call security to escort you out?" she asked, her patience visibly fraying.
She would. She’d actually have thrown out.
"Serena, you—"
"I told you, I’m NOT your Serena!" she snapped.
"Serena Lancaster," I said, her new na tasting like poison on my tongue, "do you really love this new identity so much?"
Do you love him the way you once loved ?
"Cedric Lancaster must treat you incredibly well for you to willingly abandon everything from your past."
Everything. Our marriage. Our fights. Our love. .
My eyes burned with emotion I couldn’t contain anymore. Three years of searching. Three years of hope slowly curdling into despair. And here she was, whole and beautiful and completely, utterly lost to .
Sothing flickered across her face—uncertainty, maybe even pain. Her lips parted, but no cutting retort erged. For just one heartbeat, I saw a crack in her armor.
Is there anything left of us in there?
"Are you happy with your life now?" I asked more quietly, each word a small death.
She drew a deep breath—the sa way she used to when she was fighting not to cry. "My life is perfectly fine without your concern."
Without another word, I turned and walked away.
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