7

Graham

The dark glass of the limousine window reflected a man who had gotten everything he ever bargained for.

At thirty-five, I was no longer just the heir apparent to the Morrison legacy—I was its absolute ruler. Over the past five years, I had aggressively expanded Morrison Group, crushing competitors, doubling our market capitalization, and securing complete control over the board. The financial press called me ruthless, brilliant, and untouchable.

My professional life was a masterclass in flawless execution. My personal life was an arid wasteland.

"I still don't understand why you ordered a second bottle of Chateau Margaux if you were planning to abandon her after forty-five minutes," Ethan said, leaning back in the leather seat opposite me as the driver navigated through the midnight traffic of Manhattan.

I adjusted the cuff of my jacket, keeping my eyes fixed on the blur of city lights passing outside. "She was boring, Ethan. Her father runs an investment firm I plan to acquire by Q3, and she spent three courses talking about her influencer brand in Paris. I had no interest in dessert."

Ethan let out a dry, theatrical laugh. "She was a stunning thirty-year-old model who was practically throwing herself at you, Graham. You don’t need to acquire her father's firm to enjoy a Tuesday night." He paused, his expression shifting from sarcastic amusement to quiet scrutiny. "You haven't stayed past midnight with a woman in five years. You don't let anyone get close."

"I don't waste time on complications," I answered coldly, my voice cutting through the quiet cabin of the car. "I tried the domestic route. I have no desire to repeat the mistake of marriage."

Ethan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Is it really marriage you're avoiding? Or are you just still angry at Opal?"

The mention of her name hit the air like a sudden drop in cabin pressure. My jaw tightened, a muscle leaping beneath my skin.

"Opal made her choice five years ago," I said, my tone laced with an absolute, icy finality that usually silenced board members instantly. "She walked away."

"Actually," Ethan countered softly, refusing to back down, "you're the one who hired the lawyers, pulled the evidence together, and handed her the divorce papers. You filed, Graham."

I turned my head slowly, fixing my younger cousin with a look so sharp it could cut glass. "I don't appreciate the revisionist history, Ethan. She was unfaithful. She took what she wanted from our life and slept with another man in a hotel room while I was building this company. I ended a farce."

Ethan held my gaze for a long, uncomfortable moment, then sighed and looked away, pulling his phone from his pocket. "Right. The mountain of ironclad evidence. Whatever lets you sleep at night."

I didn't dignify that with a response, turning my attention back out the window. But the silence that followed felt heavier, infected by the phantom echo of a woman who had vanished from my world half a decade ago.

By eight o'clock the next morning, I was sitting at the massive glass desk on the top floor of the Morrison Group tower.

My executive assistant, Clara, stepped into the office, placing a steaming cup of black coffee and a leather-bound folder onto the blotter in front of me.

"Your schedule for the day is set, Mr. Morrison," Clara said smoothly. "However, I received a confirmation from your stepmother’s office. Evelyn Morrison expects you at the annual charity gala for the Metropolitan Arts Foundation next month."

I didn't look up from my tablet. "Decline it."

"She specifically noted that your presence as CEO is non-negotiable this year," Clara added cautiously. "She also mentioned that your father, Sebastian, is flying back to New York from Switzerland at the end of the week. He intends to attend."

I paused, my fingers hovering above the glass screen. A cold, familiar tension settled into the back of my neck.

Sebastian Morrison had officially retired to his estate in the Alps three years ago, leaving me with sole authority over the company. But retirement had never suited my father. He still held a significant percentage of shares, and he had a habit of hovering like a dark cloud whenever he felt the family narrative was slipping out of his control. We hadn't spoken a proper word to each other in months.

"Tell Evelyn I will consider it," I said, my voice dropping an octave. "And if my father contacts the office directly, route the call through me. He is not to speak with any of the division heads regarding the upcoming acquisitions."

"Understood, sir." Clara nodded politely and stepped out, closing the heavy acoustic door behind her.

I leaned back in my leather chair, staring at the panoramic view of the Hudson River below. Sebastian’s return meant one thing: interference. He had spent my entire youth dictating my choices, pushing me into the mold of the stoic, unfeeling corporate titan. When I had married Opal—a girl with no wealth, no family lineage, and no corporate backing—he had viewed it as a personal insult, a flaw in my discipline.

When the evidence of her affair surfaced, Sebastian hadn't shown a shred of sympathy. He had simply looked at me across the dining room table and said, I told you what kind of woman she was. Clean up your mess.

I pulled my hand over my face, the sharp memory burning like lye.

It was nearly eleven at night when I finally unlocked the heavy oak door of my penthouse.

The apartment was sprawling, pristine, and dead silent. High above the city noise, the floor-to-ceiling windows offered a sweeping view of Central Park, but the interior felt more like a gallery than a home. White marble floors, minimalist furniture, and harsh, geometric art dominated the space.

It was the same penthouse I had shared with Opal.

After the divorce, my father had urged me to sell it, to erase every physical trace of the disgraced woman who had worn the Morrison name. I had refused. Instead, I had hired a high-end team of interior decorators while I was away on a month-long business trip in Asia. I told them to gut the place. I told them to get rid of the soft linen curtains, the warm oak bookshelves, the colorful plush rugs, and every single photograph she had ever placed on the walls.

When I returned, the warmth was gone. The apartment had been transformed into a cold, sterile fortress fit for a billionaire who lived alone.

I poured myself two fingers of neat scotch, the golden liquid burning pleasantly down my throat as I walked into my private study. The room was dark, illuminated only by the moonlight filtering through the glass.

I sat down behind my mahogany desk, the silence pressing against my ears.

For five years, I had convinced myself that I hated her. I had convinced myself that my anger was the armor protecting me from the embarrassment of being fooled. But on nights like this, when the noise of the business world faded, the anger felt hollow. It felt less like a shield and more like a wound that had never been allowed to heal properly.

My eyes drifted down to the bottom right drawer of the desk.

The rest of the apartment had been scrubbed clean of her existence. Her clothes had been donated, her paints thrown away, her small decorative trinkets banished. But there was one drawer in this desk that my housekeepers were strictly forbidden to touch. A drawer I hadn't opened since the night she walked out of my life.

My hand hovered over the cool brass handle.

Why now? I thought bitterly. Why let Ethan's stupid words get under your skin?

Yet, my fingers wrapped around the metal. I pulled the heavy drawer open.

Inside lay a single, dark velvet box.

My heart hammered against my ribs—a strange, heavy thumping that felt entirely foreign to my cold chest. I reached in, picked up the velvet box, and snapped open the spring hinge.

Sitting against the dark fabric, catching the dim rays of the moonlight, was Opal’s wedding ring.

The heavy platinum band with its flawless diamond sat exactly where she had left it—placed gently on top of those damning, forged photographs on the dining room table five years ago.

I picked up the ring, the platinum feeling unexpectedly heavy and cold against my skin. I remembered the day I bought it. I remembered the trembling joy in her hands as I slid it onto her finger in a quiet chapel in Italy. I remembered her looking up at me with tears in her eyes, swearing that she would love me through anything.

“One day, the truth will come out,” her voice echoed from the dark corners of the room, as clear and devastating as the night she left. “One day you are going to find out who really did this, and you are going to realize what you threw away tonight. I just hope that when that day comes, you remember how effortlessly you chose to throw me away.”

I stared at the diamond gleaming in the dark, a sudden, suffocating tightness gripping my throat.

For five years, I had believed the evidence. I had relied on the cold, hard facts. But as I held the ring she had surrendered without asking for a single dollar of my fortune, a single, terrifying question crept into the dark quiet of my mind.

What if I was wrong?