—B
Just that. No explanation. No number. Nothing to follow.
I gripped the letter so hard it creased. Fury and disbelief warred in my chest. I demanded to see the security feed. I pressed the doorman for details—finally, he remembered her leaving through the staff entrance at the back.
Anger simmered under my skin—hot, coiling, not just at her but at myself, for letting my guard down, for letting her in, even for a night.
I told myself it didn’t matter. There were always other women, other nights, other ways to forget. I told myself she was just a complication I’d already solved. But every time I tried to sleep, all I could see was her slipping out the back door, her hair hidden, her eyes careful. Every time my phone buzzed, I hoped it was her. It never was.
In the end, all I had was her handwriting, a memory, and the burning certainty that someday, somewhere, I’d see her again.
And this time, she wouldn’t get away.
I left the hotel the next day, but not before making sure there really was no way to follow her. I checked with reception once more, reviewed the guest logs, even asked the security manager for a look at the overnight tapes. It was a dead end. The best they could give me was a blurry shot of her scarf and the faint outline of her face as she slipped into the morning crowd behind a delivery truck.
It should have been easy to move on. I’d had flings before—more than I could count, more than I cared to remember. I had business in three cities that week, problems waiting for my attention, people who needed answers. But nothing landed right. Every meal tasted off, every deal felt tedious. I was distracted and on edge, snapping at my people for the smallest mistakes.
I kept the note, though. I told myself it was only because it might be useful—a clue to her thinking, a signature I could match to a form someday. But I caught myself reading it at odd hours, turning it over in my hand, searching the curves of her writing for some hidden message, some hint she’d left for me alone.
Weeks went by. I scanned party guest lists and social pages, sometimes just to see if she’d turn up at a gala or a new job. Nothing. It was like she’d erased herself, not just from my world but from the city itself.
I started having her name checked, quietly. Nothing surfaced. It should have made me let go, but it only kept the frustration simmering.
That night, in the hotel, I’d thought I’d finally found someone who saw me—the real me, behind all the layers. The way shelooked at me, the way she touched me, the way she left… It all left a mark. I hated it. And I wanted her back just as much.
Still, I didn’t chase harder. Not then. There was pride, and there was the note, and there was the risk of wanting someone who clearly didn’t want to be found.
But I never forgot. Never stopped wondering if I’d spot her in a crowd, or wake up to a message. I never stopped being furious—at her, at myself, at the fact that I let her go so easily.
And underneath all that, what I felt most was something I couldn’t name.
Something that waited, patient and restless, for another chance.
I spent weeks searching for her after she left. By the time I finally tracked down her last address, she was already gone—quit her job, moved out, left no forwarding information. Someone at her old office claimed she’d taken a new job in Europe.
Now, with her back in the city—back in my life, even if she’s running—I can’t think of anything else. Each day, my determination gets sharper. I carry her picture with me everywhere. It’s not even a question anymore, just instinct. I don’t care if it looks desperate or if my people notice. I want every possible angle. Every scrap.
Her old HR file, pulled by a favor, tells me more than she’d want me to know. Her mother’s maiden name, her graduation year. I memorize it all.
But there are new questions now. About her daughter.
About Lily.
It takes only a few days to find the details. I push resources at it—background checks, hospital records, even a couple of doctors in Brooklyn who might remember a birth, but there’s no father listed on Lily’s birth certificate. No marriage record, no partner attached to her name. Everything is tightly controlled. Smart.
But not smart enough.
Nikolai comes in one afternoon, dropping a folder onto my desk. “Her old apartment. Landlord was talkative after a little encouragement.”
I flip through the paperwork. There are old bills, rental forms, a faded copy of a lease. There are phone numbers, a reference to her last known job, even a neighbor who remembers her as “quiet, polite, with a baby who barely cried.”
“No husband?” I ask.
“Nope, never married,” he says.
I study the address, the familiar ache in my jaw. “Anyone seen her recently?”
Nikolai shakes his head. “No. But found something else. At her old company, people remembered her being close to a girl named Maya—Maya DeCosta. They worked every project together, apparently.”
