Monday morning arrived far too quickly. The city was already humming with its usual chaotic energy, but inside the Clarke Corporate Headquarters, the atmosphere was sterile and controlled. Kevin sat behind his massive desk, his eyes fixed on a screen full of acquisition data.
He was alone in his office, the silence only broken by the faint hum of the city seventy floors below, when a soft buzz from his desk intercom interrupted his focus.
"Mr. Clarke, I'm sorry to disturb you," his assistant's voice crackled, sounding uncharacteristically flustered. "There is a woman here to see you. She doesn't have an appointment, but she insisted she wouldn't leave until she spoke with you."
Kevin didn't even look up from his tablet. "I'm busy. I'm not seeing anyone. Tell her to schedule through the portal like everyone else."
" I tried, sir. But she... she said her name is Hailey. She said you'd remember."
Kevin stopped mid-air. A cold, familiar stone settled in his stomach. what is Hailey doing in his office, she has left without a word so what on Earth could she be looking for?
Kevin adjusted his tie, his face returning to its impenetrable mask. "Let her in," he said into the intercom.
The heavy glass doors swung open, and Hailey walked into the office. She didn't just enter; she glided, her heels clicking rhythmically on the polished floor. She was dressed in a designer cream power suit, her hair perfectly blown out, looking every bit the socialite she had always been. She moved gracefully, eyes scanning the room as if she already owned the deed to the building.
"Long time, Kev," she said, her voice smooth and dripping with practiced charm. She stopped in front of his desk, a small, knowing smirk playing on her lips. "Did you miss me?"
Kevin looked up, his expression deadpan. He would recognize that voice anywhere. How could he not? It was the voice of the first woman he had ever let behind his guard—the first girlfriend who had taught him that trust was the only luxury he couldn't afford.How can he forget that she left without a word.
"You're looking more handsome than ever," Hailey continued, leaning against the edge of his desk, invading his personal space without a hint of hesitation. "The 'Ice Prince' look really suits the billionaire lifestyle."
" why do you leave without a word"?.
"What do you want, Hailey?" Kevin's voice was a low, dangerous rumble. He didn't stand up to greet her. He didn't even offer her a seat.
Hailey chuckled, tracing the edge of a crystal paperweight with a manicured fingernail. "Well... I'm here for you now, obviously. I moved back to the city last week and I heard your name everywhere. I thought it was time we caught up. Maybe over dinner?"
"There is nothing to catch up on," Kevin replied, his eyes cold. "I'm working. I don't have time for nostalgia."
Hailey didn't flinch. She leaned closer, her perfume—something expensive and suffocatingly sweet—filling the air between them. "Don't be like that, Kev. We both know you can't get rid of me that easily. You were always so guarded, so serious... I missed the challenge of breaking through that shell."
"Get out, Hailey," he said, his voice flat. "I'm not that person anymore. And I'm certainly not interested in being your 'challenge' again."
Hailey straightened up, her smirk widening into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. She grabbed her designer bag and tucked it under her arm. "You say that now. But we'll see. I have a way of getting what I want, Kevin. I'll be seeing you around."
She turned and walked out, leaving the scent of her perfume and a cloud of irritation behind. Kevin stared at the door long after she had disappeared, his jaw tight. He hated that she had found him.
While Kevin dealt with the ghosts of his past in the city, Maya was miles away at Rosewood Manor, trying to drown out her thoughts with the rhythmic click-clack of her tagging gun. The house felt colder today. She was labeling a set of silver candelabras when her phone vibrated against her thigh.
She pulled it out, seeing a number she had tried to scrub from her memory. She let it ring twice before reluctantly answering. "He—"
"Your father is in the hospital."
The voice on the other end was clipped, frantic, and before Maya could even process the words or ask which hospital, the line went dead.
Maya stood frozen in the center of the grand dining hall. The air in the Manor felt like it was thickening, pressing in on her. She despised the man. He had walked out on her mother when they had nothing, leaving her to drown in regrets.
But even with the resentment curdling in her stomach, blood was a tie that wouldn't snap.
"Damn it," she hissed, her eyes stinging.
"Miss Rush? Is everything alright with the inventory?"
"Marcus, listen," Maya said, her breath hitching as she pushed open the heavy oak doors and stepped into the humid afternoon air. "I need to take a few days off. Something... something happened. A family emergency. I need to sort out an urgent matter immediately."
"A few days?" Marcus sounded hesitant. "Mr. Clarke was very specific about the timeline, Maya. He wanted the West Wing finished by Wednesday."
"I don't care about the West Wing right now!" Maya snapped, her voice breaking. "Just tell him I'm gone. I'll make up the hours, I promise. I just... I have to go."
She didn't wait for his permission. she hung up and ran toward the iron gates, leaving the shadows of Rosewood Manor behind.
The sterile, sharp scent of antiseptic hit Maya long before she reached the reception desk of St. Jude's Memorial. Her chest felt tight, her lungs struggling to pull in the heavy, medicine-scented air. She had spent the forty-minute taxi ride staring blankly out the window, her hands trembling in her lap. Not from grief—but from a cold, simmering anger that she had spent years trying to extinguish.
"I'm looking for a patient," Maya said, her voice sounding hollow to her own ears. "Adams Rush."
The receptionist didn't look up, her fingers tapping away at a keyboard. "ICU, third floor. Room 312. Only immediate family."
"I'm his daughter," Maya said, the word feeling like ash in her mouth.
She found the room and stopped at the glass partition. Inside, a man lay hooked up to a rhythmic, hissing ventilator. Adams Rush looked nothing like the towering, loud-voiced man who had packed a suitcase and walked out the door ten years ago. He looked small. He looked fragile, his skin the color of parchment.
"You actually came."