Chapter 2: Ghosts of Manhattan

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, and Elena stepped out onto the polished marble floor of Wolfe Enterprises.

Everything was still the same.

The grand open lobby.

The rich, intimidating scent of power.

The sleek lines of glass and chrome.

It was like the last five years hadn't happened. Like the walls still remembered her heels tapping with excitement, not vengeance.

But she had changed.

Her fitted black dress hugged her like second skin, the slit up her thigh deliberate. Her heels were sharp, red-bottomed weapons. Her hair was pinned into a sleek bun, exposing the elegant line of her neck. Every inch of her screamed wealth, control, and danger.

The receptionist at the front desk blinked in confusion before pasting on a smile. "Welcome to Wolfe Enterprises. Do you have an appointment?"

Elena gave her name, not her real one. Not yet. The alias she used now, the one she'd built her empire under, had power.

"Ms. Monroe. The board is expecting me."

A polite nod, a phone call, and then she was being escorted past a long stretch of offices by an assistant who kept stealing glances at her.

When the doors to the executive boardroom opened, the atmosphere shifted.

Grayson was already seated at the head of the table, flanked by his senior board members. His suit was charcoal gray, crisp and tailored, every inch the dominating CEO. His fingers rested lightly on a crystal glass of water, his expression unreadable.

Until his eyes met hers.

And for the first time in five years, they weren't just eyes. They were weapons.

Elena smiled cool and collected. "Mr. Wolfe."

"Ms. Monroe." His voice was low, calm, but a muscle ticked in his jaw.

She took her seat directly across from him. "Shall we begin?"

The boardroom was cold, clinical, and charged with tension. Elena presented Monroe Holdings' intent to invest in Wolfe Enterprises. She used business terms. Numbers. Growth potential.

On paper, she was just another investor.

But Grayson knew better.

He hadn't forgotten her. He couldn't.

Every word she spoke was calculated. Every glance was a knife.

The presentation ended, and the room burst into murmurs of approval. She had them impressed. That was part of the plan.

But the real war hadn't started yet.

"Ms. Monroe," Grayson said as the others began to file out. "A word."

She stayed seated until they were alone.

Then she stood slowly, deliberately, and walked to the window where the skyline stretched beneath them like a kingdom waiting to be seized.

"You disappeared," he said quietly.

She didn't turn around. "And now I'm back."

His voice hardened. "Why?"

She turned, meeting his gaze head-on. "Business."

"You expect me to believe that?" He questioned.

"I don't care what you believe, Grayson. I came for what's mine."

He stepped closer, his presence wrapping around her like a stormcloud.

"You're playing a dangerous game."

Her lips curved. "And you're used to getting everything you want. Including a dangerous game"

Their bodies were too close. The air between them sizzled.

"I thought you were dead," he murmured, voice rough. "I looked for you."

"You didn't look hard enough." Her voice cracked before she forced it steel again. "You moved on. Married Ava. Built your kingdom. And left me to rot."

He flinched at the word.

"You were pregnant," he said, barely a whisper.

She blinked. Just once.

"You knew?"

"I suspected," he said. "You disappeared so suddenly."

Her chest rose and fell. "I lost everything that night. You made sure of that."

He took another step forward. Close enough now to feel the heat of her skin. "I never stopped thinking about you."

"Too bad," she whispered. "I stopped thinking about you the day I gave birth alone."

His eyes darkened. "Where is the child?"

Her gaze cut like a blade. "Safe. And none of your concern."

Silence fell like thunder.

His jaw flexed. His fists clenched. "You had no right... "

"I had every right!" she exploded, voice breaking. "You were going to marry someone else, Grayson. You tossed me aside like a fucking one-night stand. Don't talk to me about rights."

He stared at her. At the fire. The pain. The fury.

And beneath it all, the same woman he once loved.

"I made a mistake," he said hoarsely. "A terrible one."

Her laugh was bitter. "You made a choice. And now I'm here to make mine."

Then, without another word, she walked out of the boardroom, heels echoing like gunshots.

And Grayson stood alone, reeling from the storm she left behind.

Later That Night,

Elena's private apartment overlooked Central Park. Minimalist. Elegant. Cold.

Sophie was already asleep in her room, her soft breathing steady. Elena stood in front of the mirror, pulling pins from her hair, her reflection slowly softening into the woman underneath the armor.

But the past still lived in her veins.

She poured herself a glass of red wine and stepped onto the balcony. The wind was cool. The city was loud. And her heart was burning.

She didn't hear the door until it was too late.

She turned.

Grayson.

Standing in her living room like a ghost.

"How the hell did you get in here?" she snapped, setting down the glass.

He held up a spare key—the emergency one hidden behind the potted plant in the hallway. "Old habits."

She stepped back. "Leave."

"I need answers." He demanded.

"You lost the right to demand anything from me."

He crossed the space between them in three steps.

"Elena, look at me... "

"No!" she snapped, chest heaving. "You don't get to look at me like that. You don't get to pretend like you didn't destroy me."

He reached for her, his fingers brushing her arm.

The touch made her flinch.

But it also made her pulse race.

"Elena," he said, his voice low, deep, and filled with something raw. "I never stopped loving you."

She froze.

Then like something snapped. She shoved him hard.

"You don't get to say that!" she screamed. "You don't get to kiss me, then cut me open. I gave you everything. Everything!"

He caught her wrists before she could hit him again.

They stared at each other –ragged, panting, hearts pounding.

Then his mouth crashed down on hers.

It wasn't soft. It wasn't sweet.

It was war.

A kiss full of pain, regret, hunger, and five years of longing.

She hated him.

She wanted him.

She needed to feel something other than the ache in her chest.

Her hands clutched his shirt, yanking him closer. His mouth devoured hers, and her knees buckled beneath the force of it.

They stumbled backward, crashing into the wall. His hands gripped her thighs, lifting her up, pinning her there. Her dress slid up, his mouth trailing fire down her neck.

"Tell me to stop," he rasped against her skin.

But she didn't.

She kissed him harder.

And for one night... just one, they gave in to the scars they'd both tried to bury.