Liam's POV – Years Later
The world thought I had it all.
Multi-million-dollar companies. A sprawling empire across three continents. A fleet of cars, an estate tucked away in the hills. And behind it all, a carefully constructed underworld — one that moved products with silent efficiency, feared me without knowing me, and left no room for softness.
But none of it mattered.
Because every night, when the world fell quiet, I still stared at the old phone I'd refused to replace.
Cracked screen. Dusty memory card. Battery barely holding a charge.
But it held her voice. Her smile. Our story.
And I couldn't let go.
Tonight was no different. I sat in my office — the one hidden beneath the surface of my flagship building, where men like me did things we could never confess.
The lights were dim, the city glowing like distant fire through the tall windows. And in my hand, that ancient phone rested, open to the last photo I had taken of her. Zara. In her motorbike jacket, smirking at me from across the cafeteria table. She had ketchup on her lip, and I had loved her more than I could ever say.
I brushed my thumb over the screen. "You should've been here," I whispered. "You would've hated all this power. But you would've kept me human."
A sharp knock sliced through the silence.
I straightened. "Come in."
The door opened, and Julian — my ever-efficient assistant — stepped in. His usual calmness was tinted with something different. Hesitation.
"There's someone here to see you," he said.
"I don't take unscheduled visits."
"I know, sir. But this one… she came through the back entrance. Says she's your new personal bodyguard. Cleared all our internal vetting. I thought—"
I waved a hand. "Fine. Send her in."
Julian stepped aside.
The woman who walked in wore all black — combat boots, tactical pants, a form-fitting jacket that screamed precision. But it was her face I couldn't see.
A sleek black nose mask covered her mouth and nose, and her hood was pulled low. But her eyes…
God. Her eyes.
Everything inside me froze.
I stood slowly, every nerve on edge. She didn't speak. Just stood there, still as stone, arms behind her back like a soldier.
"Remove the mask," I said, the words low. Commanding.
She didn't.
Instead, she met my gaze, unflinching — and in those eyes, a storm brewed. Green, with tiny flecks of gold that caught the office lights just right. My heart slammed against my ribs.
Zara.
No — it couldn't be. She was dead. I'd buried her. I'd watched the casket go into the ground. I'd mourned her every day since. But these eyes…
I stepped forward, my hands curling into fists at my sides. "Who are you?"
Still, she said nothing.
I was close enough now to see the way her breath hitched — just slightly — when I stopped before her. Her eyes flicked to my left wrist… the bracelet. Zara's bracelet. I still wore it. Always.
"You remind me of someone," I whispered.
Her chin lifted slightly — as if challenging me.
My chest felt like it was splitting open. "Is this some kind of sick joke?"
Silence.
I reached for the mask.
She stepped back — only once — then stood her ground again.
"I'm not in the mood for games," I said, voice cracking now. "You either speak, or you take off the damn mask."
No response.
But her eyes — they softened for a breath. Just a second. Just enough to spark the smallest ember of impossible hope.
A hope I hadn't allowed myself in years.
A hope that whispered — What if?