Michael's POV
The investment reports spread across my hotel desk might as well have been written in Sanskrit.
I'd been staring at the same page for forty minutes, watching the numbers blur into meaningless shapes while my mind played the same scene on an endless loop. Elara's face when she saw the ring.
The way her expression shifted from confusion to recognition to something that looked a lot like betrayal. The way she'd looked at me afterward—not with anger, but with a distance that hurt worse than any screaming match could have.
Five years. Five goddamn years of wondering, searching, slowly accepting that she was gone forever. And then today, there she was—standing in a Wolfe Industries conference room with a laser pointer in her hand, presenting quarterly projections like she hadn't ripped my heart out and vanished without explanation.
I shoved the reports aside and poured myself a whiskey from the minibar. The hotel room was ridiculous—floor-to-ceiling windows, marble bathroom, sheets with a thread count higher than my credit score. The kind of place Sienna insisted we book because appearances mattered to investors.
Manhattan glittered forty stories below, all sharp edges and cold light. I pressed my forehead against the glass and let the chill seep into my skin.
She'd looked different. Older, obviously—five years would do that—but something else too. Harder. More guarded. The soft, trusting girl I'd fallen in love with had been replaced by a woman with walls so high I couldn't see over them. There was steel in her spine now, a wariness in her eyes that hadn't been there before.
What happened to her? What could possibly have happened that was bad enough to make her run, but not bad enough to tell me about?
The whiskey burned going down. I poured another.
But it wasn't just Elara that kept replaying in my head. It was him. Aiden Wolfe.
I'd noticed it immediately—the way he'd positioned himself between us during that confrontation in the hallway. The protective stance, shoulders squared, feet planted wide. The barely contained aggression in his voice when he'd said my name, like the syllables themselves were a threat he was issuing. And the way Elara had glanced at her boss when things got tense—like he was a safe harbor, a refuge from the storm I represented.
His hand on her elbow. Casual and possessive at once.
Something was going on between them. I'd bet my entire investment portfolio on it.
The thought made my stomach churn with a jealousy I had absolutely no right to feel. I was married. I'd made vows to another woman, stood at an altar and promised forever to someone who wasn't Elara. But those vows felt different now—less like a choice and more like chains, binding me to a life that suddenly seemed hollow as a drum.
I thought about the years after Elara left. The months I'd spent searching, hiring a private investigator who found nothing, driving past her mother's house like a stalker hoping for a glimpse. Then the slow, grinding acceptance that she wasn't coming back—that she'd chosen to disappear rather than face whatever had gone wrong between us.
I'd thrown myself into work after that. Finished my MBA on autopilot, took a job at a venture capital firm because it paid well and demanded everything. The long hours were a blessing—less time to think, less time to remember, less time to wonder what I'd done wrong. Within three years, I'd made partner. Within four, I was running my own fund.
Sienna had been there through all of it. First as a friend, then as something more. I never planned to date her—never even considered it until one night when we'd both had too much wine and she'd kissed me with a desperation that caught me off guard. I'd kissed her back because I was lonely, because she was warm and willing, because saying no felt like too much effort.
I never loved her the way I'd loved Elara. I knew that even as I slid the ring on her finger, even as I said my vows with a smile that didn't reach my eyes. Sienna was safe. Comfortable. She didn't make my heart race or my palms sweat. She didn't consume my thoughts the way Elara had.
Maybe that's why I married her. Because loving someone less meant losing them would hurt less too.
My phone buzzed against the desk. Sienna's name flashed across the screen, her contact photo smiling up at me—a candid shot from our honeymoon in Santorini, all white buildings and blue water and manufactured happiness.
I let it ring twice before answering. "Hey."
"Hey, babe." Her voice was warm, familiar, completely unaware of the grenade I was holding. "How was the meeting? Did the presentation go well?"
"Fine." The word came out flat. "Long."
"You sound tired." A pause, and I could picture her frowning at the phone. "Everything alright? You're usually more excited after these investor things."
"Yeah, just... work stuff." I took another sip of whiskey, buying time. "Actually, I ran into someone today. An old friend from college. From back home."
Silence on the other end. When Sienna spoke again, her voice had shifted into something careful, measured. "Oh? Anyone I know?"
The question hung between us. I should tell her. Should say Elara's name and watch this whole careful fiction explode into flames. She deserved to know—didn't she? That her husband had spent an entire presentation staring at his ex-girlfriend, that he'd cornered said ex in a conference room and demanded answers, that he was currently drinking alone in a hotel room because he couldn't stop thinking about a woman who wasn't his wife.
But I wasn't ready for that fight. Not tonight. Not when I didn't even understand what I was feeling.
"No one important," I lied. "Just made me nostalgic, that's all. You know how it is, running into people from the past."
"Mmm." Sienna's voice stayed light, but something underneath it had gone taut. "Well, don't let nostalgia keep you up too late. You have that breakfast meeting tomorrow, remember?"
"I remember."
"Love you."
"You too."
I hung up and stared at the phone in my hand. The screen went dark, Sienna's face disappearing into black glass that reflected my own expression back at me. I looked like shit—tired eyes, tight jaw, the face of a man who'd just had his entire world tilted sideways.
Sienna had been there when Elara left. She'd watched me fall apart, held me while I raged and grieved and slowly went numb. She'd brought me food I couldn't eat, sat with me through silences I couldn't fill, listened to me say Elara's name so many times it must have felt like a knife in her chest.
And she'd stayed. Through all of it, she'd stayed.
"Maybe she's not coming back," Sienna had said one night, about six months after Elara vanished. We'd been sitting on my apartment floor, surrounded by empty takeout containers and the wreckage of another sleepless night. "Maybe you need to let her go, Michael. Maybe holding on is just hurting you more."
At the time, it had felt like wisdom. Like permission to stop drowning.
Now, standing in this hotel room with whiskey burning in my throat and Elara's face burned into my memory, it felt like something else entirely.
Sienna had been so certain Elara wasn't coming back. So ready to help me move on. So quick to step into the space my girlfriend had left behind.
My phone sat dark and silent on the desk. Sienna was probably getting ready for bed now, washing her face with that expensive cleanser she liked, climbing into sheets that cost more than my first car.
She'd been there when Elara left. She'd helped me heal.
But had she helped me move on? Or had she just made sure I had nowhere else to go?
The whiskey was gone. The city glittered below, indifferent to the mess I was making of my own head.
I didn't have answers. I just had questions—about Elara, about Sienna, about the life I'd built on the ashes of something I never really understood.
And the worst question of all, the one I couldn't stop asking: What if I'd given up too soon?