He was the most sought-after bachelor in Hollywood—mid to late 30s, brilliant, composed, and immune to shallow flattery. Women chased his name, the tabloids chased his silence, and the world followed his shadow. But Thomas Quinn moved through it all like a man untouched by need.
Wealthy beyond measure, he owned the largest entertainment agency in the country, a towering empire where dreams were forged and broken with a single signature.
In the glittering chaos of Hollywood, where beauty was currency and charm often a lie, Thomas Quinn stood apart, not just untouchable, but uninterested.
Clean-cut. Calculated. Powerful.
He was the man everyone wanted to meet—and no one truly knew.
Directors courted his attention. Rising stars lined up to audition for his favor. Women, flawless and famous, tried to break past the steel wall behind his tired smile.
None succeeded.
He had built Quinn Media from the ground up, starting with a modest indie label and transforming it into the largest entertainment agency in the country. Actors, musicians, influencers, even athletes, they all came through his doors eventually. If fame was a game, Thomas owned the board.
And yet, even with all of it—power, influence, unmatched wealth, he was lonely.
Utterly, achingly lonely.
He had everything, except meaning.
Until the day he found her.
It was early spring, on a remote beach in New York. Cold waves slapped at the shore. The sky was gray and endless. And there, crumpled on the wet sand like something the sea couldn't hold, lay a woman. Her skin was pale. Her limbs motionless. Long dark hair tangled around her face like seaweed.
And she was pregnant.
Four months along.
Thomas dropped to his knees beside her, hands moving on instinct, breath caught somewhere between dread and disbelief. He called for help, barking orders over the phone while pressing trembling fingers against her neck. Faint pulse. Shallow breaths. But alive.
He stayed with her in the hospital for three straight days.
She didn't wake.
On the fourth day, a doctor came in with solemn eyes and quiet words: the trauma had pushed her into a coma. And yet… her body fought to protect the life inside her. The baby was still strong.
Thomas never left.
He didn't know who she was. No identification. No name. No story. Just a stranger with a fragile heartbeat and a child she'd never met still growing inside her.
But he couldn't walk away.
The moment her fingers twitched in her sleep, he made a decision.
When she woke—months later, confused and disoriented—he was there.
"You're safe now," he told her gently. "I named you Anna. And your son… his name is Bryce."
She blinked at him with vacant eyes and nodded.
Anna.
Bryce.
She never questioned it. She never asked why. And Thomas never told her the truth.
That her real name was Jade Carter.
That she'd been reported dead after a brutal fall off a cliff.
That she'd been kidnapped.
That she'd been hunted.
He knew the world she came from was filled with pain.
So he gave her a new one.
He moved Anna and baby Bryce to a private estate tucked in the hills of Los Angeles. Far from the questions. Far from the headlines. He paid doctors to ensure she recovered fully, therapists to guide her through the fog of memory loss, and guards to keep the outside world away.
And when she sat at the piano one night and let her fingers dance over the keys, when her voice, soft and aching, rose in harmony with the melody, he knew what he had to do.
He didn't mold her.
He protected her.
With his industry expertise, Thomas quietly arranged for the best vocal trainers, the most respected image consultants, the most strategic brand managers. Slowly, Anna re-entered the world, not as a broken woman rebuilt from tragedy, but as an unstoppable force of artistry.
By the time the year turned, Anna Smith was dominating everything.
Music videos. Magazine covers. World tours.
She topped the Billboard charts with heart-wrenching ballads and thunderous anthems. She walked red carpets with a calm grace that made the world lean in closer. Her voice became iconic. Her image was everywhere. Critics called her a once-in-a-generation talent.
And through it all, she never let go of Bryce.
Her son was her light. Her rhythm.
The only thing stronger than the applause.
To the public, she was mysterious, a rising star who never discussed her past.
To Thomas, she was a miracle.
A woman reborn from tragedy, who now sang as if her voice could rewrite the pain she'd never speak of.
He watched her from backstage.
In shadows. In silence.
Not because he sought credit.
But because he had saved her.
And in return, somehow, she had saved him too.
He didn't know if she would ever remember the truth.
But he vowed, no one would ever take her or Bryce away again.
Not the media.
Not her past.
Not even fate.