CHAPTER 5

James pov

The morning chill draft drifted past the sheer silk curtains, filling the expansive master suite with a cold, oppressive emptiness.

I reached out blindly across the high-thread-count sheets before slowly opening my eyes. 

She wasn't there.

It was the morning after our scheduled bi-weekly encounter, and usually, without fail, Hannah would still be curled up beside me. 

She had a habit of softly pressing herself into my side in her sleep, holding onto me as though she were terrified the monsters of her past would drag her back into the dark. 

When I awoke on those mornings, her delicate forehead would be resting against my chest, her soft hair tangled across my arms, and her faint vanilla perfume clinging to the pillows.

Today, the bed was cold. 

Her scent was completely gone.

A strange, unsettling weight settled in the pit of my stomach as I sat up, running a hand through my hair.

"Hannah?" I called out, my deep voice sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet room.

Silence answered.

I tossed back the duvet and stood up, pulling on a silk robe as I walked into the hallway.

“Hannah?"

I pushed open the door to her adjoining dressing room, expecting to find her getting ready or organizing her things. 

Instead, the room was pristine—too pristine.

I stepped up to the walk-in closet and froze.

The custom designer gowns, the diamond jewelry sets I had purchased for corporate galas, the expensive shoes—everything remained untouched on their velvet hangers and glass displays. 

But the small, worn canvas duffel bag she had brought with her two years ago was missing from the top shelf.

My heart took a sudden, violent plunge.

I sprinted back into the main bedroom, my eyes scanning every surface until they landed on the dark mahogany desk in the corner. 

Resting right in the center was a single piece of paper, held down by a glinting object.

I walked over, my movements stiff and unnatural.

It was the signed divorce decree. 

Right beside it lay her diamond wedding ring—the heavy platinum band reflecting the pale morning light.

"She signed it..." I muttered, my voice barely a whisper.

I picked up the paper, staring at her signature right next to mine. 

The ink was dry, but a faint, dried tear stain had crinkled the paper right beside her name.

Just then, my private secretary, Andrew, knocked twice on the open double doors before stepping into the room, holding a tablet.

"Good morning, Mr. Vance," Andrew began crisply. 

“The morning financial reports are ready, and Mr. Bernard  Vance has requested an immediate update regarding the merger clause—"

"Where is she?" I interrupted, my voice cutting through the air like a blade.

Andrew blinked, thrown off guard. "Sir?"

"Where is Hannah?" I demanded, turning around to face him, the paper crumpling slightly in my fist. 

“Did security see her leave?"

Andrew hesitated, looking down at his tablet before quickly checking the building's digital access logs. 

“According to the lobby security records, Mrs. Vance... excuse me, Hannah left the penthouse at 11:42 PM last night, sir."

"And no one stopped her?" I snapped, stepping toward him. 

"No one thought to call me or send an escort?"

"Sir, she wasn't carrying any company property or restricted assets," Andrew explained carefully, holding his ground. 

"And after the encounter in the main lounge last night with Ms. Kensington, security assumed her departure was... authorized by you."

The mention of Chloe Kensington made my jaw lock.

Last night’s display with Chloe had been a calculated performance—a bitter, cold act to push Hannah away, to force her to accept the inevitable end of our contract before my father's ruthless board could use her as leverage against me. 

I had told myself it was business. 

I had told myself she meant nothing.

"Where did she go, Andrew?" I asked, my voice dangerously low. 

"Which hotel is she staying at? Check the credit cards issued under her name."

Andrew tapped the screen rapidly, then looked up with a grim expression. 

None of the cards have been swiped, sir. 

In fact, she left her wallet, her black card, and all her company credentials on the entryway table.

"Then check her phone's GPS!" I yelled, losing my composure completely.

"Her primary device was deactivated and left in the drawer, Mr. Vance," Andrew replied softly. 

“She didn't take a single cent of your settlement money. She walked out with nothing."

The room seemed to spin on its axis.

Nothing. She had walked away into the dark, rain-soaked city with no money, no security, and nowhere to go—just like the night I first found her two years ago.

"Sir," Andrew added nervously, "your father is on line one. 

He wants to know if the divorce is finalized so he can announce the restructuring to the press."

I stared down at the heavy platinum ring sitting cold on the desk. 

The silence in the penthouse felt deafening. 

For two years, I had convinced myself that she was just a transaction, just an obligation to fulfill my father's wishes. 

But looking at her empty side of the bed, the suffocating realization hit me like a physical blow:

I hadn't just terminated a contract. 

I had lost the only real thing in my life.

"Tell my father the meeting is canceled," I said quietly, my tone flat and terrifyingly cold.

"Sir?" Andrew asked, wide-eyed. "The board is already assembled—"

"I said cancel it!" I roared, slamming my fist against the mahogany desk. 

“Find her, Andrew. Hire every private investigator in the state, track every security feed, ping every transit hub. I want her found before nightfall!"

"Understood, Mr. Vance," Andrew nodded quickly, turning to exit.

I collapsed onto the edge of the bed, resting my elbows on my knees and pressing my face into my hands. 

Her vanilla scent was faint, almost gone, fading with every tick of the clock.

"Where are you, Hannah...?" I whispered into the empty room.