All Chapters of The Lost Heiress’s Glorious Return: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

Damon’s POVThe numbers on my screen blurred together, lines of text melting into one another like some bad dream. I leaned back in my chair, trying to summon focus, but the office around me—the glass walls, the endless city view, the carefully curated shelves—felt like a museum I no longer belonged to. The hum of the air conditioner, the distant chatter of coworkers down the hall, even the tapping of keyboards didn’t reach me.Deadlines loomed, reports waited, and investors wanted answers. But none of it mattered. My mind kept drifting back to her. To Isabella. To everything I didn’t know but desperately wanted to.I ran a hand through my hair, now peppered with more grey than I liked to admit, and sighed. My laptop screen blinked mockingly. I forced my fingers to type, a few words here and there, but it was pointless. Every keystroke felt like a betrayal — like I was betraying the unanswered questions, the gnawing ache inside.A knock at the door startled me.“Sir,” Janice, my assis

Damon’s POVI stared at the photograph long after the sun had dipped behind the skyline, the lights of the city casting reflections across my office windows. Isabella’s blurred image haunted me. That street, the tilt of her head, the unmistakable tension in her shoulders—she wasn’t just alive. She was aware.She was looking over her shoulder like she expected someone to be there.Like she was still running.The sticky note on the back mocked me, its words looping endlessly in my head:“You were never supposed to find her.”It wasn’t a warning.It was a threat.I picked up the photo again, my thumb brushing the edge. Someone took this recently. Midtown. I could recognize the crosswalk markings, the storefronts in the background. A week old, maybe less.She was here. She was close. And someone knew exactly where.Kiara.The name lodged in my throat. Could she have sent this?No—she was with me earlier that day. And besides, this wasn’t her style. She liked control, yes, but not games. N

Damon’s POVI jolted upright in bed, chest rising and falling with shallow, ragged breaths.The sound of glass shattering still rang in my ears—but the apartment was silent. No movement. No broken wineglass on the floor. No smoke curling under the door. Just the echo of a dream that felt too real.In it, Isabella had been walking down a corridor of mirrors. Each pane reflected a version of her I couldn’t hold—some younger, some older. One bruised. One burning. One laughing with eyes that didn’t match her smile. I tried to follow her, my hands reaching—but every mirror shattered when I touched it. All I could hear was her voice, calling my name through the smoke.Then silence.Now darkness.I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes, trying to erase what I’d seen. But it clung to me like soot.My phone buzzed on the nightstand. Just a calendar reminder. A board meeting at ten. Another investor call. Another hour of pretending I wasn’t unraveling.I got out of bed, feet dragging as I

Isabella's POVMorning came slowly, stretching pale streaks of light across the apartment ceiling like it was unsure whether to fully arrive. I lay still, watching shadows move gently with the breeze, feeling the silence press around me.But something was different. Not the silence itself. Me.I wasn’t afraid of the quiet anymore.I pushed the covers off, padded barefoot into the small kitchen, and reached for the kettle. The familiar routine—tea, toast, trying not to overthink—had become a comfort. But today, the rhythm wasn’t enough. There was a tug inside me, sharp and persistent.I needed answers.I needed a plan.As the kettle hissed to life, I sat down at the table and pulled my laptop closer. My hands hesitated above the keyboard for a second before I typed:“How to verify the source of a hospital report.”Search results flooded the screen—legal blogs, health forums, and articles about falsified documents. My stomach knotted tighter with each click. I didn’t have the full repor

Isabella's POVThe scent of cinnamon and vanilla filled the apartment—like a memory trying to find its way home.I stood at the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled up, flour dusting my wrists, the oven humming in the background. A batch of hazelnut toffee cookies sat cooling near the edge, golden and crisp, while another tray baked inside. Beside me, the open folder of clues and Mia’s old recipe notebook created a strange contrast—one sweet, the other unsettling.I was trying to stay grounded.Trying to stay present.But my thoughts kept circling back to the voice on the phone—the smooth, unnerving calm of a woman who had known me too well.“Why did you run away again?”Again.I reached for my phone, fingers sticky with sugar. My thumb hovered over the call log. One missed call. No caller ID. I clicked it anyway and hit “Redial.”Nothing.Silence, followed by a shrill beep, and then the robotic voice: “The number you have dialed is not in service. Please check the number and try again.”M