Chapter 15

(Unknown POV)

On the forty seventh floor of an  Enterprise building, a man stood at the windows, hands clasped behind his back.

The city moved beneath him, with buildings, streets, and people moving in patterns he'd gotten used to over the years.

He was tall, and built in a way that suggested years of discipline and healthy living.

His black hair had traces of silver at the temples, the kind that made him look appealing instead of old. His dark gray eyes studied the activities below with the intensity of someone who rarely missed details.

The office behind him was flawless, with everything in their rightful places.

In his right hand, he held a photograph. Slightly worn on some part from being handled too many times. A woman in a silver dress, half laughing, her eyes bright with genuine joy. It was the kind of photograph that you just could not get over.

Five years old, that's how old the picture is. And it's been five years since he'd first seen her.

The memory played in his mind again like a film he'd watched too many times but couldn't stop rewatching.

**********

The charity gala had been one of those overcrowded affairs where people donated money to feel righteous and spent the rest of the night networking.

He'd gone because his father insisted, because appearances mattered in their world.

He'd been standing near the bar, bored out of his mind, when he heard her voice.

"The issue with current gene therapy approaches is that we're treating symptoms instead of addressing root cellular dysfunction. If we could develop a method to target mitochondrial DNA repair..."

He couldn't help himself, so he'd turned.

The woman speaking was younger than most people at the event, maybe in her mid-twenties. She wore a silver dress that caught the light when she moved. Her hair was pulled back simply, with no elaborate styling like most females in the room, but somehow managed to stand out.

But it wasn't her appearance that held his attention. It was the way she spoke, her hands moving as she explained complex scientific concepts to an older man who looked half asleep. She didn't seem to notice or care. She was just lost in the ideas themselves.

And somehow, he'd found himself walking closer.

"Mitochondrial DNA repair," he said, making her turn. "You're talking about reversing cellular aging at the source."

Her face had immediately lit up, clearly happy to finally see someone who was interested in what she had to say. "Exactly! Most people don't understand the difference."

"Most people aren't molecular biologists."

"Are you?"

"No. But I fund them."

That made her laugh. "A venture capitalist who actually understands the science. That's rare."

They fell into conversation. She explained her research on regenerative medicine, and he asked questions that showed he'd been paying attention. Twenty minutes disappeared without him noticing.

She was brilliant. Not just brilliant, but genuinely passionate about her work in a way that made her forget to be self-conscious. She talked with her whole body, leaning forward when she got excited, her hands sketching invisible diagrams in the air.

"I'm sorry," she said suddenly, glancing at her watch. "I've been stealing your time talking about mitochondria. You must think I'm completely obsessed."

"I think you're remarkable."

She blushed, and it did something to his chest. "I'm Evelyn, by the way. Evelyn Hart."

"David," he lied smoothly. "David Morrison."

He'd learned years ago to use fake names at events like these. Staying in the shadows had its advantages.

Before she could ask more, a hand landed possessively on her waist. A man appeared beside her—shorter than him, with curly hair and a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"There you are," the man said. "I've been looking everywhere."

Her demeanor shifted, the brightness of her eyes dimming just slightly. "Julian, I was just talking to—"

"David Morrison," he offered before Evelyn could finish. He extended his hand. "Venture capital."

Julian shook it, his smile fake. His grip in the handshake was firm. The kind men used when they were marking territory.

"And you are?"

"Julian Hart. Evelyn's fiancé."

The word hit him harder than it should have. Of course she was engaged. A woman like her wouldn't be unattached.

"Congratulations," He said, meaning it even as something in his chest tightened.

Julian's smile sharpened. "Stay away from my fiancée."

He said it like a joke, laughing as if it were all in good fun. But he heard the warning underneath. Saw the way Julian's fingers pressed into Evelyn's waist.

"Of course," he said smoothly. "It was lovely meeting you, Evelyn."

"You too," she said. Her eyes held a longing like she didn't want him to leave yet.

He watched them for the rest of the evening. Couldn't help himself. He watched Julian interrupt her conversations, steer her away from groups where she seemed engaged.

Watched the way she flinched when Julian corrected something she'd said to a donor. A small thing. Most people probably didn't notice. He did.

Nothing about her escaped him.

By the end of the night, one thought consumed him: “He doesn't deserve her.”

*********

Five years later, he stood in his office with that same photograph, and the same thought.

Julian Hart still didn't deserve her. But at least now, Evelyn was finally free of him.

His desk phone buzzed. His assistant's voice came through. "Mr. Cole, I have confirmation. Mr. Hart will be here tomorrow at ten."

He set the photograph down carefully. "Good. It's time he understood the consequences of his actions."

"Sir, are you sure about this? Getting involved in their divorce—"

"I'm not getting involved in their divorce." He turned from the window. "I'm ensuring she stays free."

The assistant hesitated. "Yes, sir."

After she disconnected, he moved to his computer. He pulled up files he'd been compiling for months. Years, if he was being honest.

Bank transfers from Julian's accounts to one belonging to Serena Vale. Regular payments, always on the fifteenth. Hotel receipts from business trips that didn't match his actual travel schedule. Plane tickets purchased in pairs when Julian claimed to be traveling alone.

He had documented it all. Waiting for the day when Evelyn might need proof of what her husband was doing behind her back.

He'd known she would need it eventually. Men like Julian always got careless.

There were other files too. Ones about Evelyn herself.

Her college transcripts. Perfect grades in biochemistry, molecular biology, advanced genetics. Research papers she'd published during her graduate studies—groundbreaking work on cellular regeneration. Letters of recommendation from professors who called her one of the brightest students they'd ever taught. And then nothing.

She'd abandoned her PhD program right before her dissertation defense. The timing matched her wedding to Julian.

He had read between the lines. Julian hadn't wanted a wife who was smarter than him, who had her own career ambitions. He'd wanted someone supportive. Someone who would make him look good. Which was why he'd pursued her relentlessly.

The word had seen him as an intentional man, and eventually Evelyn had fallen for his persistence and given up everything she'd worked for.

His hands curled into fists thinking about it. All that brilliance, that potential, shelved so Julian Hart could build his mediocre company. But not anymore.

He had been planning her escape before she'd even filed for divorce. The moment he'd heard through his network that she'd contacted a lawyer, he'd made arrangements.

Greystone & Associates wasn't just any law firm. He has owned it for three years, though that information wasn't known to the public.

When Mr. Creighton told him about Evelyn's request for identity erasure; he had immediately authorized the expedited process. He paid for everything and made calls to ensure it happened in two weeks instead of months.

He'd arranged the apartment in London. His company had offices there, and connections. It was far enough that Julian would never find her, but English-speaking so she could rebuild without the added stress of a language barrier.

He'd even contacted Elena Reeves, a corporate strategist he'd worked with before. She was a brilliant woman, and kind of person who could help Evelyn turn her research into something real.

All of it done quietly and without Evelyn knowing he was behind any of it.

His phone buzzed with a text. Mr. Creighton.

“She's on the plane to London. ETA: 7 hours.”

He set the phone down and pulled up another screen. Security footage from Heathrow Airport. He'd arranged for access days ago, claiming security concerns for a business deal.

The feed was live and he watched passengers moving through terminals, crowds shifting and reforming, before he saw her.

Evelyn appeared on the screen, pulling a suitcase behind her. She wore sunglasses even though she was indoors. Her hair was different, kind of shorter. The camera quality wasn't good enough to tell for sure.

She kept looking over her shoulder and checking behind her every few steps like she expected someone to grab her.

She was scared. Even through the grainy footage, he could see the tension in her body, and the way she gripped the suitcase handle.

He reached for his phone and dialed.

His head of security answered on the first ring. "Sir?"

"I need you to have someone meet her at Heathrow. Black car, discreet. Take her to the apartment I prepared."

"Sir, she doesn't know you're helping her."

"I know. And she's not going to. Not yet."

He hung up and returned to watching the screen.

Evelyn stopped in the middle of the terminal. Set her suitcase down and pulled out her phone and stared at it for a long moment.

He found himself leaning closer to the screen. What was she looking at? Was Julian trying to contact her again? Was she safe?

Then she put the phone away and picked up her suitcase and resumed walking.

He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"You're safe now, Evelyn," he said to the empty office. "I promise.”