All Chapters of A Love Once Lost: Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

Anastasia Greene Johnson“Ruslan!” I burst through the front door with the spare key, my voice frantic. “Ruslan!” Nothing. Not a sound. Panic immediately tightened its grip around my throat.“Ruslan! Where are you?” I made for his bedroom, only for Brynn to hurry after me and grab my arm.“Ana, what the hell?” she whispered. “Calm down. He was exhausted. He’s asleep.” I stared at her, wide-eyed and unconvinced. Without bothering to explain, I pushed past her and checked for myself. And there he was. Curled peacefully beneath his comforter, breathing softly. The relief that swept through me nearly knocked my legs out from under me. I sank to the floor, releasing a breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding.“Ana!” Brynn dropped beside me. “What happened? Why are you home already? Are you okay? Are you sick? Have you eaten?” She pressed the back of her hand against my forehead, comparing my temperature with hers.“You’re sweating like crazy. Did you actually run all the way

Alexander Finnegan Robertson“Bloody hell.” My own shaky voice spilled from Tyler Frayer’s phone. “I still can’t believe I’m actually holding this trophy. How the hell did I beat all those brilliant, seasoned actors?” A wave of laughter rolled through the crowd.“God, I’m nervous. I honestly didn’t think I’d win when I was nominated, so I didn’t prepare a speech. Bear with me.” Another burst of laughter.“Right, first of all, I want to thank my parents, especially Dad, for always believing in me. He’s sitting right there, crying and smiling at the same time. Haha. Love you, Dad. And a massive thank-you to my best mate, Max. Apart from my family, he’s supported me more than anyone. He’s been there since I decided to pursue acting. Thanks, mate. And, of course, my fans—thank you for all the love and support from day one. This award belongs to you as much as it does to me. And huge thanks to my mentor, Andy Hughes, the director, George, the producer, Noah, and all my co-stars for—”“

Ethan Rodrigo Johnson The autumn air drifting through the open windows of the Stanfield & Co. Interiors building felt different from the atmosphere inside my own towers. At Johnson Global Tech, everything was sterile, hyper-optimised, and faintly scented with ionised server exhaust and overpriced espresso. Here, on the top floor of their historic Manhattan brownstone overlooking Madison Avenue, the air carried the scent of treated European leather, polished wood and generations of old-money legacy. It was a million-dollar fortress disguised as elegance. Beautiful, certainly. But fragile. Across the hand-carved mahogany table sat Sergio Stanfield. In his mid-fifties, the chairman of Stanfield & Co. Interiors wore his age like a badge of prestige. Silver hair perfectly coiffed, charcoal double-breasted suit immaculate, posture relaxed with the effortless confidence that decades of power tended to buy. I was nearly forty years younger. Yet I sat opposite him in a tailored three p

Anastasia Greene Johnson“Th-thanks,” I managed, my voice a barely-controlled tremor as I reached for the bag. A rich, intoxicating blend of musk and sandalwood drifted from the shadowy stranger. My heart gave an odd little flutter, struck by a recognition I desperately didn’t want to acknowledge. Wait. . . no. It can’t be. Then his voice came—low, smooth and almost teasing.“You’re welcome. . .” A second figure emerged behind him, a bulky, thug-like man switching on his phone’s flashlight as he hauled the unconscious perpetrator upright. The beam fell across the stranger’s face. And my breath caught. There ‘he’ stood in a gray, sophisticated, tailored business suit. Those familiar greyish-blue eyes stared straight into mine, smouldering beneath the dim light. Those sharp, almost unfairly perfect features looked even more arresting than I remembered. And that infuriating smirk—the same one that had once sent butterflies loose in my stomach—now twisted my insides with pure

Ethan Rodrigo Johnson“H-hello?” I asked, my voice betraying the tremor running through me. For several seconds, there was nothing but silence on the other end. Then came ragged breathing and muffled sobs. I knew that sound.“Ruslan?” The name left me instinctively. “Is that you, son?” Annie’s head snapped towards me.“Ruslan? Is it Ruslan? I knew it! I knew you took him. Give me the phone!” She lunged for it, but I held her back.“Wait. Let me talk to him first. This could be a trap. We need to—”“Dad?” The voice cut me off. It was unmistakably Ruslan. Yet I refused to let relief cloud my judgement. In this day and age, voices could be replicated with frightening precision. If someone had taken him, they’d know exactly whose son he was, regardless of how carefully Annie had kept her connection to me hidden. But it could just as easily be Ruslan himself. And if it was, then someone might have taken him and was using him to get to me. My jaw tightened.“Ruslan?” I ask