Chapter 2
Mia
I watched the elevator numbers descend one by one, but all I could see was Luke's face from the financial news segment.
On the screen in the elevator lobby just moments ago, Luke Morrison had stood at a podium flanked by executives. Dark hair swept back, charcoal suit that probably cost more than my first year's rent in Milan. He looked every inch the tech billionaire the world had decided he was—controlled, untouchable, nothing like the eighteen-year-old boy I'd left behind eight years ago.
Something cold crawled up my spine. Sotheby's London. Of all the auction houses in the world, of all the investments a tech billionaire could make, he'd chosen that one.
Was this coincidence?
Was he looking for me?
A reporter's voice had cut through: "Mr. Morrison, this acquisition of Sotheby's represents a major shift into the luxury market. What's driving Apex's interest in high-end art and collectibles?"
Luke's expression hadn't changed. When he spoke, his voice was measured, clinical. "Beauty is the only currency that appreciates with memory."
My phone had nearly slipped from my hands.
For just a second, something had flickered across his face on screen—something raw and unguarded beneath the carefully constructed mask. Then it was gone, smoothed over by that impenetrable control, and he was answering another question about market projections and digital authentication technology.
But I'd seen it. That split-second crack in the armor.
Beauty is the only currency that appreciates with memory.
I'd asked him once, years ago, what he'd do if I ever left. He'd looked at me with those warm brown eyes and said, "I wouldn't look for you. Wouldn't think about you."
I'd called his bluff. "Liar. My beauty will only grow more valuable in your memory. The longer I'm gone, the deeper the mark I'll leave."
He hadn't denied it.
And suddenly I was eighteen again, wrapped in his arms in his room, the world outside forgotten. In the quiet darkness, all I could hear was the sound of our hearts beating—his pulse steady against my chest, mine answering in perfect rhythm, two hearts that existed only for each other.
Luke
The penthouse was dark when I got back, just the way I'd left it. Fifty-second floor, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan's sprawl, not a single warm light in the place. I dropped my keys on the entry table and headed straight for the bar cart, already loosening my tie.
The acquisition had gone exactly as planned. Sotheby's board had capitulated within hours, the integration timeline was tracking ahead of schedule, and Wall Street had responded with the kind of enthusiasm that made shareholders salivate. My mother had sent a congratulatory text with three exclamation points, which for Catherine Morrison was practically a parade.
I poured two fingers of Macallan and drank it straight from the bottle.
On the coffee table, the pill bottle sat exactly where I'd left it that morning—untouched, safety seal still intact. Next to it, an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts, evidence of the three hours I'd spent chain-smoking before facing the cameras. Doctor's orders to quit both the cigarettes and to skip the medication when I drank.
I'd ignored both.
The bottle was half-empty when Brandon let himself in with the spare key I regretted giving him.
"Jesus Christ," he said, taking in the scene—me on the couch in the dark, tie undone, shoes kicked off somewhere between the door and here. "It's not even three in the morning. You trying to set a personal record?"
"I just started," I said.
"That's not reassuring." Brandon crossed the room and dropped into the chair across from me, all expensive athleisure and easy confidence. We'd known each other since prep school. "I saw the press conference. Congratulations on the acquisition, by the way. You looked absolutely triumphant up there, Mr. Morrison."
I didn't respond, just stared at the amber liquid in the bottle, watching how the city lights refracted through it.
Brandon watched me for a moment, then leaned back in his chair with that assessing look he got when he was deciding whether to push. "So. Are we going to talk about the tabloid photos from last week, or are you going to keep pretending they don't exist?"
I took another drink. "There's nothing to talk about."
"Really? Because you make the tabloids every other week. What does Chloe say about it?"
"None of her business."
"I know that. You know that. But Luke, you can't keep doing this forever."
"Forever," I said quietly. "What's so wrong with forever?"
Brandon held up his hands. "Okay. Okay. Just wanted to make sure we're on the same page."
Silence settled between us. I could feel him watching me, could sense the real question he wasn't asking yet.
Finally, he said, "Julian called me earlier. Did Chloe mention anything to you?"
I went very still.
"About the reunion," Brandon continued, his tone carefully neutral now. "The high school one. He's on the planning committee."
My jaw tightened. I set the bottle down harder than necessary. "Not my problem."
"They're doing some big welcome-back dinner in two weeks," Brandon said. "At that country club. For returning alumni who've been overseas."
The word stopped me cold.
Overseas.
Could it be London?
I didn't answer. Couldn't. The air had gone thin, and my hand had moved almost unconsciously to my abdomen, fingers pressing against the ridge of scar tissue beneath my shirt. Eight years old, that wound. Healed crooked, a permanent reminder of the night everything had shattered.
Some nights I could almost forget it was there.
But tonight pulled everything back to the past.
"Luke." Brandon's voice was gentler now. "You don't have to go. You know that, right?"
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, and dragged both hands through my hair. The motion did nothing to ease the pressure building behind my temples. My fingers dug into my scalp, hard enough to hurt, as if I could physically pull the thoughts out of my head.
Brandon was quiet for a long moment. I could feel him watching me. I knew that look from years of friendship—he was working his way toward something he didn't quite want to say.
Of all people, Brandon knew the full story between her and me better than anyone. He stood, shrugging into his jacket. "Try to get some sleep, yeah? And maybe eat something that isn't whiskey."
The door clicked shut behind him.
I stayed on the couch in the dark, fingers still pressed against the scar, and stared out at the city. All those lights like fallen stars that had gotten stuck. Somewhere out there, in some hospital or hotel room, she might be looking at the same sky.
After a while, I reached for my phone and pulled up Julian's email. The reunion invitation. Welcome back celebration for a distinguished alum. No name listed.
I stared at the screen until the words blurred together, my thumb hovering over the delete button. One tap. That's all it would take. But my hand wouldn't move, suspended in that space between action and paralysis, the same place I'd been living for eight years.
Then I locked the phone and set it face-down on the table, pressing the heels of my palms against my eyes until I saw stars.
Outside, Manhattan glittered like broken glass. Inside, the penthouse stayed dark.
And somewhere in the space between, the memories I'd spent eight years trying to bury started clawing their way back to the surface.
Would she come back?
