Chapter Twenty One

Jake.

The knock at my office door is sharp, deliberate, the kind of knock that says whoever is behind it is carrying something important. I already know who it is. I have been waiting all night, pacing like a caged animal, with a headache splitting my skull and last night’s whiskey still burning in my veins.

“Come in,” I rasp, my voice rougher than I’d like.

My private investigator, Marcus, steps inside, his leather briefcase tucked under one arm. He doesn’t look at me right away, and that alone makes my chest tighten. Men like Marcus aren’t easily shaken. But his eyes, his eyes hold hesitation.

“Well?” I demand, unable to sit still. I shove away from the edge of my desk and stand tall, crossing my arms. “What did you find on her? Where has she been? Who was she with?”

Marcus exhales, slow, controlled. “That’s the problem, Mr. Donovan.” He sets the file down on my desk, a thin file that looks far too empty for the five years I’ve lost. “There’s nothing to find on Kyla”

I freeze. “What do you mean nothing?”

“I mean exactly that. No medical records. No utility bills. No bank statements. No property records. No photos. No witnesses. For five years, Kyla Donovan might as well have ceased to exist, she might as well be dead.”

His words slam into me like bricks, one after the other, knocking the air from my lungs. I flip open the file, flipping through the barren pages dates, attempted searches, a trail of dead ends. Every report stamped with the same conclusion: no trace.

“That’s not possible,” I snap, my temper fraying. “She was alive. She had to be somewhere. People don’t just disappear off the face of the earth.”

“Unless someone wanted it that way,” Marcus says evenly, but there’s weight in his tone, like he’s not sure if he’s speaking to reassure me or himself.

I drag a hand through my hair, tugging hard at the roots. My temples throb. My throat burns. “I saw her. She was at the gala. That wasn’t some illusion, Marcus. She is alive, breathing, standing right there in front of me. And you’re telling me she just, vanished for five years?”

He nods grimly. “I have been doing this job long enough to know when someone wants to stay hidden. Your wife, your ex wife covered her tracks. If she didn’t want to be found, she made sure of it.”

The words ex-wife sting more than I care to admit. Amina may wear my last name, but when Marcus says ex-wife, he’s talking about the only woman I ever truly loved.

I slam the file shut. The sound echoes like a gunshot in the room. “Not good enough. I don’t pay you to tell me she’s a ghost. I want answers. Where has she been? Who helped her? Who kept her safe? Did she have someone else?”

The thought claws at me, raw and ugly. The possibility that she wasn’t alone, that another man could have touched her, held her, just the thought of it made my blood boil with anger. 

Marcus doesn’t flinch under my fury. “I will keep digging. But I need time. This is unlike any case I have ever handled.”

Time. That word is like poison on my tongue. I’ve already lost five years. Five years without her, without knowing. Without the truth.

“I don’t have time,” I snarl. “She’s here now. She’s in this city. And I need to know where the hell she’s hiding.”

“Then I suggest you start asking the right questions to the right people,” Marcus says carefully. He closes his briefcase, leaving the file behind. “Someone knows where she’s been. The question is, are you ready for the answers?”

The door clicks shut behind him, and the silence that follows is deafening.

I stand there, staring at the file like it might burst open with secrets if I glare hard enough. Nothing. Just blank spaces where her life should be.

My heart pounds as memories slice through me her laugh, her tears, the sound of her voice the day she told me she was pregnant. The day she vanished from my world, taking everything with her.

I slam my fist into the desk, the wood rattling under the force. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. The walls are closing in, suffocating me with questions that have no answers.

Screw Marcus. Screw his empty file. If no one else can find her, I will.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m shoving my phone into my pocket, grabbing my keys, and storming out of the office. The cool New York air slaps me in the face as I step outside, but it does nothing to calm me.

My driver starts to open the back door, but I wave him off. “No. I’ll drive myself.”

He looks startled but doesn’t argue. Good. Because right now, I don’t need anyone else in my ear.

I slide behind the wheel of my black Mercedes, gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles turn white. The city buzzes around me, horns blaring, people moving, life carrying on. But all I can think about is her.

Kyla.

Where the hell are you?

Why did you leave me?

And why come back, why now? 

And why the hell did you come back now?

I slam my foot on the gas, weaving through traffic with reckless precision. I don’t know where I’m going, not exactly. But my gut tells me I’ll find her. I always do.

She can’t stay hidden forever. Not from me.

Not when my blood sings with the memory of hers.

Not when every part of me is screaming that I need her answers, her truth, her presence.

For five years, I thought she was dead. For five years, I mourned her. And now that I know she’s alive, nothing in this world will stop me from finding her.

Not the press.

Not Amina.

Not even Kyla herself.

I grip the wheel tighter, my jaw clenched so hard it aches.

“Hold on, Kyla,” I mutter under my breath, my voice a vow. “Wherever you have been, whatever you’ve been through, I’m coming for you. And I won’t stop until I know everything about what happened five years ago.”