His Fathers's Ring, His Son's Touch

Amara's Pov

I stepped up to the counter, pulling my coat tighter against the draft.

"The usual, Amara?" the barista, a guy named Theo with tired eyes and a kind smile, asked before I could even open my mouth.

I offered a small, weary smile. "Please. A large iced Americano with three pumps of white chocolate mocha and a heavy splash of cream. I need the sugar to survive this morning's presentation."

"Coming right up. Big day at the firm?"

"The biggest," I murmured, checking my watch. I still had time before heading to the office. If I was late one bit, Mr. Henderson would kill me.

Theo slid the plastic cup toward me, the dark espresso marbling beautifully with the thick cream. "Break a leg."

"Thanks, Theo."

I grabbed the cup, the condensation chilling my palm, and turned with a sharp, hurried pivot, colliding with a wall of solid muscle and expensive perfume. The lid of my cup popped, and splashed on him, soaking into his white shirt and a charcoal blazer that probably cost more than my monthly rent.

"Oh, God! I'm so sorry-I was in such a rush-"

My hands went out instinctively to brush at the mess, but my breath hitched in my throat, dying there. My eyes traveled up from the coffee-stained silk tie, past a sharp jawline, and landed on a pair of blue eyes.

Lucas.

The world outside the cafe windows blurred into a gray smear. Two years. Two years since he had walked out of our apartment in the middle of the night without a note, a word, or a backward glance. He had broken up with me without any explanation, and now, here he was.

He looked older. Harder. His hair was slicked back, and his presence felt heavy.

"Amara?" His voice was a low rasp, a sound that sent a shiver down my spine.

"Lucas," I breathed, the name tasting like ash.

"Babe? Is everything okay?"

A woman stepped out from behind him. She was beautiful in that effortless, polished way that suggested she had never known a day of struggle in her life. Her brunette hair was gathered in a perfect chignon, and she immediately reached for a silk handkerchief from her clutch.

"Oh, no, your shirt is ruined," she said, her voice soft and genuinely concerned. She didn't look at me with anger; she looked at me with the pity one reserves for a clumsy stranger. She turned to Lucas, dabbing at his chest. "It's fine, honey. We can just stop at the boutique on the way to the office and get you a new one. Are you hurt?"

*Honey.* My gaze dropped to his hand as he reached up to catch her wrist. There, on his ring finger, sat a silver ring.

He was married.

Lucas didn't answer her. His eyes were locked on mine, intense and unreadable. He looked like he wanted to reach out; he looked like he wanted to scream.

"Do you know her, Lucas?" the woman asked, her head tilting as she finally registered the charged silence between us. "You've been staring for a long time."

I felt the sting in the back of my eyes-a hot, humiliating burn. "I'm sorry," I managed to choke out, my voice sounding like it belonged to someone else. "I... I have to go."

I didn't wait for him to find his tongue. I reached into my pocket, slapped a twenty-dollar bill onto the counter for the mess, and bolted. A staff member was already approaching with a mop, but I didn't look back.

I pushed through the heavy glass doors and inhaled a breath of freezing air, my lungs burning.

What was he doing here? He was supposed to be gone. He had made my life miserable, his sudden disappearance triggering a spiral that had forced me out of the city and into a job that nearly cost me my life in Italy. I had come back to New York to start over, but seeing him felt like a curse.

He looked happy. He looked rich. He looked like he hadn't spent a single night wondering if I was dead or alive.

"Don't think about him," I whispered to myself, clutching my empty hands into fists. "He's a ghost. He doesn't matter."

Thirty minutes later, the universe decided I hadn't suffered enough.

"You're late, Amara."

My boss, Mr. Henderson didn't even look up from his desk.

"I am so sorry, sir. There was an accident on my way, and then the subway-"

"The Sterling Group doesn't care about the subway," he snapped, finally looking up. His face was flushed with a dangerous shade of red. "They pulled out. They felt our firm lacked the 'attention to detail' they require. They were in the lobby for ten minutes, waiting for the lead junior on the project, and you weren't here."

"I have the renders right here," I said, my voice trembling as I held up my portfolio. "I can call them, I can-"

"You can pack your things."

The silence that followed was deafening.

"Sir?"

"You've been distracted since you started here, Amara. I took a chance on you despite the gap in your resume. Clearly, that was a mistake. Give your badge to security."

I stood there for a moment, the floor feeling like it was tilting beneath my feet. I wanted to scream that it wasn't fair.

Instead, I just nodded.

I spent the rest of the afternoon sitting at my desk, staring at the screen until it went black. I didn't move. I watched my coworkers leave one by one, their glances a mix of pity and awkwardness. By the time I finally stood up to leave, the cleaning crew was making their rounds.

I walked out of the doors of the office building and was met with a wall of freezing rain.

I didn't have an umbrella. I didn't have a job. And I definitely didn't have a plan.

I started walking, my cheap flats soaking through within minutes. The rain was heavy, blurring the neon lights of the city into long streaks of red and yellow.

"It's his fault," I thought, a sob catching in my throat. It's all Lucas's fault. He brought the bad luck back with him.

I was crossing 5th Avenue, my head down, the hood of my coat doing nothing to stop the water from dripping down my neck. I didn't hear the screech of tires. I didn't see the headlights cutting through the gloom.

A horn blared, and suddenly, the world was blindingly white.

I froze in the middle of the asphalt, my heart leaping into my throat, as a black sedan skidded toward me.

Arthur's Pov

I sat in the back, my gaze fixed on the blurring lights of 5th Avenue. The car had jerked to a halt, the tires screaming against the wet asphalt.

"Sir, I'm so sorry-she came out of nowhere," my driver, Marcus, stammered, his hands gripping the steering wheel.

I didn't answer him. I stepped out of the vehicle, the rain instantly soaking through my clothes. I looked down at her. She was shivering, her eyes rolling back into her head as the shock took hold. Before she lost consciousness completely, her gaze met mine for a fraction of a second-a look of terror. Then, she went limp.

"Is she dead?" Marcus asked, stepping out to stand beside me.

"No," I murmured, my voice smooth and cold as polished stone. "She's exactly what I've been looking for."

I didn't wait for the driver to help. I leaned down, my hands easily scooping her slight frame from the ground. She was ice-cold, her wet blonde hair clinging to my sleeve.

"Get the door," I commanded. "We're going home."

My townhouse on the Upper East Side was a fortress of shadow and marble. I carried the girl through the foyer, my footsteps echoing against the high ceilings.

Minutes later, She was laid out on a bed draped in grey cover. I stood at the foot of the bed, my arms crossed over my chest. I looked down at her, a slow, dark smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.

"Fate is a curious thing, Elias," I said to my personal assistant, Elias, my voice barely a whisper. "I've spent weeks searching for her, and she walks right into my path on a rainy Tuesday."

Elias stepped forward, holding a thick Manila folder. "It took some time to verify the facial recognition from the street cams, sir. But it's her. Amara Vance."

I reached out and took the file. I flipped it open, the pages crisp under my touch. The first thing I saw was a badge photo-Amara, looking younger, her hair pulled back, wearing a medical ID.

Staff Registry: Saint Jude's Psychiatric Institute.

"The same girl," Elias confirmed. "The one who had seen the private file of the hospital. She disappeared the same night you instructed to kill her. It seems she fled Italy and is hiding in New York as a junior architect."

I scanned the notes. "An orphan. No living relatives. No close friends in the city. She's a vacuum, Elias. No one would even report her missing for weeks."

"It's the perfect time to finish it, then," Elias said, his voice dropping. "She escaped our reach at the hospital, and she knows far too much about the files she had come across. If she speaks, the entire Hale's legacy becomes a crime scene. We should kill her now, while she's already half-dead from the cold."

"Before she dies, we need to know what she knows first."

"Sir, the hospital is in fear. If the hospital is exposed–"

I interrupted, finally looking at him. My eyes were hard. "Call the institute. Tell them she has been found, and let them know I will personally oversee her 'rehabilitation' here, in my home. She won't be leaving this house until I know exactly what she saw that day."

Elias hesitated, then bowed his head. "As you wish, sir."

He turned and left the room.

I walked around the side of the bed and sat in the velvet armchair beside her. I leaned forward, my shadow stretching across her body. I reached out, my long fingers hovering just inches away from her throat before moving to brush a stray lock of blonde hair from her forehead.

"You were so clever, Amara," I whispered to the sleeping girl. "To run so far, only to end up back in my hands. Did you think New York would protect you?"

I stood up, my gaze lingering on her parted lips and the way her chest rose and fell. She looked fragile, like a bird with a broken wing, but I knew better. She was a witness. A loose thread in a tapestry of lies I had spent years weaving.

"Should I kill you?" I asked the silence. "You know too much. You should've stayed hidden and quiet, but you chose your path."

Amara's Pov

The first thing I felt was the silence.

I opened my eyes, my lashes heavy. The ceiling above me was adorned with delicate crown molding, and the bed beneath me was so soft it felt like it might swallow me whole. I sat up abruptly, a sharp ache throbbing in my temples. The last thing I remembered was the blinding white of headlights and the cold sting of rain.

I looked down. I was still in my clothes from yesterday, though they had been dried and pressed. My shoes sat neatly by the foot of a wardrobe.

"Where am I?" I whispered, my voice raspy.

I stood up, my legs feeling like lead, and moved toward the door. It opened without a sound. The hallway was a gallery of polished wood and oil paintings. As I reached the top of the grand staircase, my breath hitched. The house was a temple of dark luxury, every corner dripping with elegance.

I descended the stairs, my hand gripping the cold rail. In the foyer, a massive portrait hung above the fireplace. I stopped, my heart skipping a beat.

The man in the painting was... haunting. He looked like sin given a human form. He had dark, thick hair swept back from a forehead that suggested a sharp, calculating intellect. His jawline was a jagged edge, and his shoulders were broad. But it was his eyes, a piercing grey eyes that made my skin crawl and heat up at the same time. He looked familiar.

I turned to look at the rest of the room, and that was when I saw it. On a side table sat a smaller, silver-framed photograph.

Lucas.

My knees nearly buckled.

This was Lucas's house. What was I doing in his house?

"You're finally awake,"

I spun around, my back hitting the wall. Standing in the arched doorway was the man from the portrait. But the painting hadn't done him justice. He wasn't wearing a suit now. He wore a black, sleeveless cotton shirt that clung to his hard chest and exposed his arms that were corded with muscle. He was in grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips, that made me look away.

He must be the one that saved me.

"I... I should go," I stammered, my pulse racing.

"You slept for nearly twelve hours, Amara," he said, his voice deep. He walked toward me. "I'm Victor. And you're in no state to be running off into the city on an empty stomach."

"No. T-thank you. For everything," I said quickly. I couldn't be here. Not especially in front of Lucas's father. "I have to go."

I didn't wait for his permission. I hurried toward the front doors. I felt his gaze on my back, a hot, prickling sensation that didn't fade even when I pushed through the doors and into the crisp morning air.

I hurried down the long, gated driveway. At the iron gates, I couldn't help myself. I turned back. Victor was standing in front of the mansion, his grey eyes fixed on me, watching me, as if he were memorizing the way I ran.

I didn't have where to go, but back to Mr. Handerson to beg for another chance. This was the only means to hide and survive.

By the time I reached, I saw him near the entrance-Mr. Henderson. He was on his cell phone, pacing around.

He hung up his phone when he saw me, and looked at me with a sneer of pure disgust. "I thought you were fired. What are you doing here? "

"Mr. Handerson, I apologize for the trouble. I really need this job." I pleaded, my voice breaking. "It's all I have. I'll do anything. Please."

He didn't reply. He turned to go, but I held him back pleading for a second chance. He was known as a rude and mean man, but I didn't care at this point. I thought he would be angry, but he stared at me from head to toe, before his gaze reaching my eyes.

"Anything? Meet me back here at ten tonight. The cleaning crew will be gone. We'll see if you're truly dedicated to keeping your position."

Finally, a flicker of hope.

I nodded. I had to stay hidden. I needed this job. My last job at Saint Jude's had ended in blood and shadows. I had seen a file-of a private patient that should have stayed buried. They had tried to kill me for it, and I had barely escaped the city with my life. This job was my only shield.

Ten o'clock came too fast. The office was dark, the only light coming from the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.

I entered Mr. Henderson's private office. He was sitting behind his mahogany desk, a glass of scotch in his hand.

"Sit down, Amara," he murmured.

I walked forward sitting opposite him.

"Amara," He stood up, his face flushed. He walked toward me, and before I could react, he had gripped my upper arms, his fingers digging into my skin with bruising force. "You said you'd do anything. Let's see how much you mean it."

He shoved me back against the leather sofa, his weight heavy and suffocating. He smelled of cheap cologne and expensive booze.

"Stop," I gasped, pushing against his chest. "Mr. Henderson, stop!"

"Don't play coy now," he hissed, his hand reaching down to hike up my skirt, his other hand pinning my wrists above my head. His lips on the side of my neck, planting dangerous and disgusting kisses on them.

Panic, sharp and blinding, exploded in my chest. I didn't expect this to happen. He had never looked at me with such lust before. My hand failed out, searching for anything, and my fingers closed around a heavy, sharp object on the side table-his "Architect of the Year" glass award.

I didn't think. I swung.

The glass dug deep into the side of his head with a sickening *thud*. He groaned, his grip loosening as he slumped to the side. Blood began to spill across the white leather of the sofa.

I scrambled back, the award falling from my nerveless fingers and hitting the floor with a hard thud, shattering into pieces. My hands were shaking so hard I could barely breathe.

"Oh, God," I whispered, staring at the red pooling around his head. "Oh, God, what have I done?"