Chapter Two:
(Roy's POV)
The first thing I felt was pain a dull throb behind my eyes, pulsing in rhythm with the morning light that crept through the hotel curtains.
My throat was dry, my mouth tasted of regret, and for a long second, I couldn't remember how I'd gotten here.
Then I turned my head.
A woman lay beside me.
She was half-covered by the sheet, hair tangled against the pillow, her breathing soft and steady. There was a faint trace of perfume in the air something delicate, familiar.
And suddenly, flashes came back.
Rain. Laughter. The sound of her voice. The warmth of her hand in mine as we stumbled through the hotel lobby. The way she'd looked at me not with recognition, but with something far worse. Trust.
I sat up slowly, head spinning. My suit jacket was on the floor. Her dress was draped over the chair.
What the hell had I done?
This wasn't me. Not anymore.
The man I'd become the CEO, the Sinclair name, the legacy didn't lose control. Didn't drink enough to forget. Didn't wake up next to someone whose name he couldn't recall.
But I had.
I rubbed my hands over my face, trying to pull myself together, trying to recall even one clear thing from last night beyond the sound of her laughter.
Nothing came.
A sharp vibration cut through the silence my phone, glowing on the nightstand.
I snatched it up. Daniel's name flashed on the screen.
"Sir," his voice came quick, panicked, "there's been an issue with the Hong Kong acquisition. The board is demanding an emergency meeting in thirty minutes."
Of course.
Crisis never waits.
"I'll be there," I muttered, already on my feet.
I took a glance back at the bed. She shifted slightly, still asleep, the sheet slipping down her shoulder. Something tightened in my chest a pang of guilt, maybe pity.
No. Not pity. Something harder to define.
"Don't do this," I told myself under my breath. "Just walk away."
So I did.No note, no goodbye because I couldn't find the right words, and anything I said would've been a lie.
By the time I stepped out into the rain, my pulse was steady again. The mask was back on.
The night had been a mistake, a moment of weakness in a life that didn't allow any.
Still, as the car pulled away, I caught my reflection in the window. And for one brief, unguarded second, I wondered who she was and what it would've meant if I'd stayed
(Chloe's POV)
The first thing I remember after that night was the silence.
Not the soft, warm kind. The kind that presses down heavy and hollow like something missing from the air.
Roy was gone. His scent still clung to the sheets, and his glass of wine sat half-full on the table. The cufflink was all he'd left behind, a small, perfect emblem of the night that had already begun to fade.
For days after, I kept expecting my phone to ring. Or for him to walk into one of the cafés I worked at, smiling like he'd meant to come back all along.
But he didn't..
And me? I went back to work, to cheap takeout dinners and late-night sketching in my tiny studio apartment, telling myself that night had been a dream.
Three weeks later, I realized I was late.
At first, I laughed it off. My life was already a blur of stress and caffeine and skipped meals it wasn't unusual. But when the second week passed, the laughter turned to shaking hands and a pharmacy test hidden at the bottom of a paper bag.
The line appeared before I could even exhale.
Two lines. Bold. Unforgiving.
I sat on the bathroom floor, knees pulled to my chest, and stared at it until the words blurred.
Pregnant.
The word felt too big for the room. Too heavy for someone who could barely afford rent.
I pressed my palm against my stomach, whispering, "No, no, no," as if I could will it away.
But life, I've learned, doesn't wait for permission.
I told myself I'd find him.
That night hadn't been meaningless. He wasn't cruel. He was kind, quiet, thoughtful someone who had laughed with me about spilled champagne and painted pictures with words.
He would want to know.
So I searched.
First online "Roy New York art investor," "Roy gala," "Roy luxury car black sedan." Nothing.
Then I remembered the cufflink. Words Titan Holdings.
At first, I thought it was a brand. Maybe a custom jeweler. But when I typed Titan Holdings into the search bar, hundreds of results flooded the screen stock prices, news articles, and financial reports.
And there, in a sleek press photo with a black suit and unreadable eyes, was he.
Roy Sinclair, CEO of Titan Holdings. Billionaire. Investor. Philanthropist.
My breath caught. The man who'd held my hand in the rain was staring back at me from a magazine cover.
For a moment, I couldn't move. My pulse roared in my ears.
He'd never mentioned who he was. Not once.
And suddenly, everything made sense the car, the hotel, the way people had looked at him at the gala. He wasn't just another guest. The gala had probably been his.
My fingers trembled as I scrolled through photos of Roy shaking hands with politicians, standing beside supermodels, staring into cameras with that same cool precision.
And there, in every picture, was the distance.
The same kind of silence I'd felt the morning he disappeared.
He wasn't someone I could walk up to. He wasn't someone who'd remember me as a caterer with student debt and fading dreams.
He was a headline.
And I was nobody.
That night, I deleted every search result and closed my laptop.
Then I whispered to the tiny, impossible life inside me, "It's just us, okay? We'll be fine."
The months crawled by in slow, nauseous rhythm. Morning sickness, cravings, exhaustion that felt bone-deep.
I picked up extra shifts, lied to my professors, pretended I was fine when everything felt like it was falling apart.
Art school became harder my sketches grew clumsy, my focus fractured.
Three years later.
Morning sunlight spilled through the cracked blinds of my apartment, landing on a stack of overdue bills and Eli's scattered crayons. The kettle whistled, sharp and impatient, and I turned it off before it could wake him.
He was curled on the couch, a blanket pulled to his chin, his small chest rising and falling unevenly.
Every breath reminded me why I couldn't give up.
His doctor called it a congenital heart defect. Manageable, they said, Regular medication. Checkups. Possibly surgery.
I worked wherever I could designing for small boutiques, waiting tables, anything that kept us afloat. Sleep became a luxury I couldn't afford.
Sometimes, when he laughed, I'd forget for a second how fragile he was. His eyes crinkled the same way his did. Grey. Deep. Familiar. I couldn't escape that.
That morning, when I got the email from the hospital saying his insurance wouldn't cover the next round of tests, my chest went cold.
My laptop was filled with half-finished applications, rejection emails, and bookmarked job listings. I'd applied everywhere fashion startups, interior studios, even online craft shops that paid in "experience."
Each morning after Eli's preschool drop-off, I sent out more resumes. Each night, I watched the inbox stay empty.
Then, one rainy afternoon, Maya my best friend and fellow designer messaged me a link
Maya: "Hey, I know it's a long shot, but this posting just went up. Titan Holdings is looking for a junior designer. you should try"
My heart stuttered. Titan Holdings.
The name glared at me like a dare.
Me: "You're kidding, right? They'd never hire someone like me"
Maya: "They might. You've got talent and Eli's medical bills you need to sort".
She wasn't wrong.
I stared at the screen. Eli was asleep on the couch, one small hand clutching his stuffed bear, the rise and fall of his chest soft and steady.
I whispered, "This isn't about him," though I knew it was.
The job listing sat open for a long time. My cursor hovered over the "Apply" button.
I closed the laptop. Got up. Poured water. Sat back down. Opened it again.
My hand shook. I clicked.
Then instantly regretted it.
What had I done?
I wanted to unsend it, to pretend I hadn't just invited the past back into my life. But the email confirmation blinked on the screen before I could stop it.
Your application has been received.
I stared at those words until the letters blurred into gray.