Chapter 3 3

Ethan POV

I woke up feeling more rested than I had ever been in my life; I stayed still, my eyes closed, and my arm stretched across the other side of the bed, expecting warmth.

Expecting the soft weight of a woman whose name I barely knew but whose presence had burned itself into me, I turned to the side to reach her, but my hands met very cold sheets.

My eyes snapped open as my brain rushed out of the fog at the realization 'she left without saying goodbye'.

The sheets were rumpled, but cold; obviously, she had left really early. I sat up at once, my heart thudding harder than it should have.

The city below was already awake, too, moving on as if nothing unusual had happened the night before.

I called out just to be sure, "Amara," but only silence answered.

I sat up, the memory of the night hitting me all at once. Her laughter, her sharp, sexy eyes. The way she had looked at me, like she wasn't impressed by money or like she saw something underneath and didn't care enough to be afraid of it.

I checked the bathroom first to be sure, but it was empty, no steam on the mirror. No trace of her except a folded towel and the faint, soft, floral scent that proved that I had not imagined last night.

My chest tightened in a strange way. She hadn't even left a note.

I walked back into the bedroom, my eyes skimming through the whole room. Her shoes were gone, her dress missing, but a single hairpin lay abandoned on the dresser. I picked it up, turning it between my fingers.

Something about the pin felt important, like further proof that she had been real and not a dream I had built in my loneliness.

"Damn it," I muttered.

From what I have heard, women didn't leave like this, not from me, Ethan Cole. Not without a word, a number, a plan to meet again. That was the unspoken rule of my world.

And yet, she was gone.

I reached for my phone, hesitating only for a second before calling my head of security. "I need you to find someone," I said calmly, even as irritation bubbled in me. "A woman who left my penthouse early this morning. Check the cameras, get me her details."

"Yes, sir."

I hadn't expected her to stay forever; hell, it had been a one-night stand. That was the unspoken agreement. No promises or morning-after expectations.

So why did it feel like I'd lost something before I ever had the chance to name it?

I showered, dressed, and tried to shake it off. By the time I stepped into my office later that morning, I had buried the feeling under schedules, meetings, and decisions that affected billions of dollars.

That was my life, a structured routine, but every few minutes, my mind betrayed me.

I kept seeing her eyes, and by noon, I gave up pretending it meant nothing.

"Any update on my request?" I told my head of security, leaning back in my chair. "The woman from last night."

He raised a brow but didn't question me. "No feedback yet, we only have her side view, what's her name?"

"Amara," I admitted, irritation flaring. "She didn't give me her last name."

He paused. "That'll make it... difficult."

"I don't care," I said flatly. "Check the club. The cameras, their staff. Whatever it takes."

He nodded and left.

I told myself it was curiosity. I needed closure, but deep down, I knew that wasn't the truth. Something about her had unsettled me, like a loose thread I couldn't ignore.

The hours dragged on, but my phone stayed silent. By evening, my frustration was growing, and I was getting restless.

And then my phone rang.

I didn't recognize the number, but I answered. "Ethan Cole."

"Sir," my assistant said, her voice strained. "It's about your grandfather."

Everything else stopped.

"What about him?"

"He collapsed earlier today. It's serious. He's been transferred to a specialist hospital... overseas."

The words blurred together, my brain trying to catch up. "Overseas?"

"Yes. The doctors recommended immediate transport. Your parents are already enroute." My grip tightened on the phone. "Which hospital?"

She told me. I barely heard it. "I'll be on the next flight," I said and ended the call.

Just like that, the world shifted.

My grandfather has always been larger than life to me. The man who built an empire with grit and instinct. The man who taught me that wealth meant nothing if you didn't have something or someone worth protecting.

I arrived exhausted, hollowed out by worry.

The hospital smelled like antiseptic and quiet fear. Machines beeped softly as I stood by his bedside, looking at the man who had once seemed unbreakable.

Now he looked small. Fragile.

"Ethan," he murmured when he saw me, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

"I'm here," I said quickly, taking his hand. "You're going to be fine."

He chuckled weakly. "You always did lie beautifully." I swallowed then as fear of loss built up in me.

The weeks that followed blurred together. I spent every hour I could spare with him, rotating with my parents.

I put my life on hold without hesitation, I postponed some meetings and delegated tasks that I could not shift because nothing mattered more than being there.

Some days, he was lucid, sharp as ever. Other days, he drifted in and out, leaving me alone with memories and the steady drip of time running out.

One afternoon, as sunlight filtered through the curtains, he studied me for a long moment.

"You're restless," he said.

I frowned. "I'm fine."

He smiled knowingly. "You've never been good at hiding from me."

I exhaled slowly. "I met someone."

His eyes lit with interest. "Ah."

"It was... unexpected," I continued. "Brief but intense."

"And?" he prompted.

"I can't stop thinking about her," I admitted quietly.

He squeezed my hand with surprising strength. "Then don't run from it."

I looked at him. "It was just one night."

"So were some of the most important decisions of my life," he said gently. "Time doesn't define impact, Ethan, the heart does."

I stayed silent.

"Promise me something," he said after a moment.

"Anything."

"Don't live guarded," he said. "Love openly, live freely even if it scares you."

My throat tightened. "You always make it sound simple."

"It isn't always, but we make hard decisions so we can live simply," he said. A month later, he was gone.

The funeral was dignified, heavy with legacy and the pain of loss. People spoke of him in polished words and rehearsed reverence, but I heard his voice instead. His laughter, his sacrifice, and his love for family.

When it was over, when the crowds dispersed and the condolences faded, I found myself alone with grief and unfinished thoughts.

I returned to New York changed, sharper in some ways, softer in other respects.

Life resumed its relentless pace, but something in me had shifted.

My team had not been able to find Amara, and the time spent away from New York turned her trail cold. She had become the woman who disappeared before dawn.

I stepped onto the balcony of my penthouse, gazing at the stars as the night air cooled my skin.

"Where are you?" I murmured into the night, my voice rough with emotion that I had not earned the right to feel.

"My one-night wonder."