Chapter 11
*(Evelyn's POV)*
After he left, I sat at my desk for an hour without moving.
Then I unlocked my bottom drawer and pulled out the velvet box. The locket. I opened it and looked at the tiny photograph inside — me at three years old, on my mother's lap, both of us laughing.
I closed it. Put it back. Locked the drawer.
"Ms. Ashford?" My secretary's voice through the intercom. "Your three o'clock is here."
"Send them in."
Life continued.
Over the following weeks, the acquisition went smoothly. Castellano Group's pharmaceutical division was absorbed into Ashford Medical's portfolio. I restructured their R&D department, fired the dead weight, and doubled their output within a month.
Luca signed every document I sent without comment. He didn't call. Didn't send gifts. Didn't show up.
I told myself I was relieved.
Sebastian and I continued seeing each other — dinners, gallery openings, a weekend in the Hamptons. He was warm and uncomplicated. He made me laugh. He never looked at me like I was a tool or a convenience.
"You know," he said one evening, pouring me wine on his terrace, "I'm falling for you."
I looked at him — golden-haired, smiling, entirely safe.
"Sebastian..."
"You don't have to say it back." He kissed my forehead. "I'm just putting it out there. No pressure. No contracts." He grinned. "Unless you're into that."
I laughed, but something hollow echoed in my chest.
That night, I dreamed of Luca.
Not the cold, dismissive Luca of our marriage. The young one. The one on the rooftop, smoking in the dark, who didn't ask me to be anything other than what I was.
*Terrible night for that,* dream-Luca said.
I woke up at 3 AM, heart pounding, and hated myself for it.
The next morning, a news alert lit up my phone:
**[BREAKING: Castellano CEO Hospitalized After Violent Episode — Company Future in Question]**
I read the article twice. Then a third time.
*Sources confirm that Luca Castellano suffered a severe blood fury episode during a board meeting, injuring two executives before security could restrain him. He has been transported to Mercy General's psychiatric ward. His condition is listed as critical.*
My phone rang. It was Dr. Reeves — Luca's personal physician, one of the few people who knew about his condition.
"Ms. Ward — I'm sorry, Ms. Ashford. I know you're no longer... involved. But I don't know who else to call."
"What happened?" My voice was steadier than I expected.
"The episodes have escalated dramatically since your departure. This latest one — he nearly killed someone. We've tried every medication, every intervention. Nothing works." A pause. "You know as well as I do that you were the only thing that ever controlled it."
"That's not my problem anymore."
"I understand that. I do." Dr. Reeves' voice was heavy. "But he's asking for you. He's restrained, sedated, and he's still saying your name. If this continues..." He trailed off. "I'm not asking you to come back to him. I'm asking as a doctor. He may not survive the next episode."
I hung up.
I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the wall.
Then I picked up the phone and called my secretary.
"Clear my morning."
After he left, I sat at my desk for an hour without moving.
Then I unlocked my bottom drawer and pulled out the velvet box. The locket. I opened it and looked at the tiny photograph inside — me at three years old, on my mother's lap, both of us laughing.
I closed it. Put it back. Locked the drawer.
"Ms. Ashford?" My secretary's voice through the intercom. "Your three o'clock is here."
"Send them in."
Life continued.
Over the following weeks, the acquisition went smoothly. Castellano Group's pharmaceutical division was absorbed into Ashford Medical's portfolio. I restructured their R&D department, fired the dead weight, and doubled their output within a month.
Luca signed every document I sent without comment. He didn't call. Didn't send gifts. Didn't show up.
I told myself I was relieved.
Sebastian and I continued seeing each other — dinners, gallery openings, a weekend in the Hamptons. He was warm and uncomplicated. He made me laugh. He never looked at me like I was a tool or a convenience.
"You know," he said one evening, pouring me wine on his terrace, "I'm falling for you."
I looked at him — golden-haired, smiling, entirely safe.
"Sebastian..."
"You don't have to say it back." He kissed my forehead. "I'm just putting it out there. No pressure. No contracts." He grinned. "Unless you're into that."
I laughed, but something hollow echoed in my chest.
That night, I dreamed of Luca.
Not the cold, dismissive Luca of our marriage. The young one. The one on the rooftop, smoking in the dark, who didn't ask me to be anything other than what I was.
*Terrible night for that,* dream-Luca said.
I woke up at 3 AM, heart pounding, and hated myself for it.
The next morning, a news alert lit up my phone:
**[BREAKING: Castellano CEO Hospitalized After Violent Episode — Company Future in Question]**
I read the article twice. Then a third time.
*Sources confirm that Luca Castellano suffered a severe blood fury episode during a board meeting, injuring two executives before security could restrain him. He has been transported to Mercy General's psychiatric ward. His condition is listed as critical.*
My phone rang. It was Dr. Reeves — Luca's personal physician, one of the few people who knew about his condition.
"Ms. Ward — I'm sorry, Ms. Ashford. I know you're no longer... involved. But I don't know who else to call."
"What happened?" My voice was steadier than I expected.
"The episodes have escalated dramatically since your departure. This latest one — he nearly killed someone. We've tried every medication, every intervention. Nothing works." A pause. "You know as well as I do that you were the only thing that ever controlled it."
"That's not my problem anymore."
"I understand that. I do." Dr. Reeves' voice was heavy. "But he's asking for you. He's restrained, sedated, and he's still saying your name. If this continues..." He trailed off. "I'm not asking you to come back to him. I'm asking as a doctor. He may not survive the next episode."
I hung up.
I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the wall.
Then I picked up the phone and called my secretary.
"Clear my morning."