Chapter 5
The conference room went silent.
Every head turned toward me, then back to Dominic, reading the tension crackling between us.
"It's Ms. Cole," I corrected calmly. "And I believe we're here to discuss the Meridian Tower project, not personal history."
Dominic hadn't moved. His knuckles were white against the edge of the table.
"Everyone out," he said quietly.
"Mr. Ashford, the presentation—" one of his architects began.
"I said out. Now."
The room cleared in seconds. Only the two of us remained.
Dominic circled the table slowly, his eyes never leaving my face, as if he were afraid I'd vanish if he blinked.
"Four years," he said, his voice rough. "You disappeared. No trace. No forwarding address. Nothing."
"You told me to lose your number," I reminded him. "I did."
A muscle ticked in his jaw.
"I looked for you."
"When?" I leaned back. "After a month? A year? How long did it take before my absence inconvenienced you?"
He stopped three feet away, close enough that I could smell his cologne. The same one. It nearly undid me.
"Three weeks," he admitted. "I called. Your number was disconnected. Your apartment was empty. Your firm said you'd resigned."
"And you assumed I'd simply crawled away to die quietly."
"No." His voice cracked. "I assumed you'd moved on. Found someone who wasn't a monster."
"How romantic," I said dryly. "But I didn't come here for a reunion. I came for the Meridian project."
"Serena—"
"Ms. Cole."
His jaw clenched. "Fine. Ms. Cole. Can we at least—"
"No." I stood, gathering my portfolio. "Send the project specs to my office. We'll submit preliminary designs within two weeks."
I walked toward the door.
"Are you happy?"
His question stopped me with my hand on the handle.
"Excuse me?"
"Are you happy?" he repeated, quieter. "In London. In your life. Are you happy?"
I turned just enough for him to see my profile.
"Happier than I ever was here."
I left him standing alone in that conference room.
In the elevator, my hands trembled. I pressed them flat against my thighs and breathed.
That night, back at my hotel suite, I video-called the twins.
"Mummy!" Lily shrieked, her face filling the screen. "Lucas stole my crayon!"
"Did not!" Lucas protested from somewhere off-screen.
"I'll be home soon, babies," I promised, my heart aching. "Be good for Auntie Natasha."
After they hung up, I sat in the dark, staring at the city lights.
Coming back to New York was a calculated risk.
Natasha had spent four years building an airtight case against Elena Marchetti.
We had bank records, testimony from the Swiss surgeons, communication logs between Elena and a black-market geneticist.
The trap was set.
All I needed was the right moment to spring it.
And Dominic Ashford was going to hand me that moment himself, whether he knew it or not.
The next morning, a massive bouquet of white peonies arrived at my hotel.
The card read: "Let me explain. Dinner tonight. — D"
I threw the card in the trash.
An hour later, another delivery. This time, a rare first-edition architecture book I had mentioned wanting years ago.
The card: "I remember everything. — D"
I gave the book to the hotel concierge.
By afternoon, he sent a handwritten letter. Three pages. I didn't open it.
At 6 PM, my phone rang with an unknown number.
Against my better judgment, I answered.
"Stop sending things," I said.
"Then let me see you." His voice was raw, stripped of its usual authority.
"Why?"
"Because I need to apologize. Properly. Face to face."
"You had four years to apologize, Dominic."
"I know. And I've spent every one of those years regretting what I did."
"Regret doesn't undo damage."
"No," he agreed. "But I need you to know that Vivienne — everything fell apart six months after you left."
My pulse quickened, but I kept my voice neutral.
"I don't see how that's my concern."
"Serena, please. One dinner. One hour. And if you still want nothing to do with me after that, I'll walk away. I swear it."
I was quiet for a long moment.
"One hour," I said finally. "Not a second more."
Every head turned toward me, then back to Dominic, reading the tension crackling between us.
"It's Ms. Cole," I corrected calmly. "And I believe we're here to discuss the Meridian Tower project, not personal history."
Dominic hadn't moved. His knuckles were white against the edge of the table.
"Everyone out," he said quietly.
"Mr. Ashford, the presentation—" one of his architects began.
"I said out. Now."
The room cleared in seconds. Only the two of us remained.
Dominic circled the table slowly, his eyes never leaving my face, as if he were afraid I'd vanish if he blinked.
"Four years," he said, his voice rough. "You disappeared. No trace. No forwarding address. Nothing."
"You told me to lose your number," I reminded him. "I did."
A muscle ticked in his jaw.
"I looked for you."
"When?" I leaned back. "After a month? A year? How long did it take before my absence inconvenienced you?"
He stopped three feet away, close enough that I could smell his cologne. The same one. It nearly undid me.
"Three weeks," he admitted. "I called. Your number was disconnected. Your apartment was empty. Your firm said you'd resigned."
"And you assumed I'd simply crawled away to die quietly."
"No." His voice cracked. "I assumed you'd moved on. Found someone who wasn't a monster."
"How romantic," I said dryly. "But I didn't come here for a reunion. I came for the Meridian project."
"Serena—"
"Ms. Cole."
His jaw clenched. "Fine. Ms. Cole. Can we at least—"
"No." I stood, gathering my portfolio. "Send the project specs to my office. We'll submit preliminary designs within two weeks."
I walked toward the door.
"Are you happy?"
His question stopped me with my hand on the handle.
"Excuse me?"
"Are you happy?" he repeated, quieter. "In London. In your life. Are you happy?"
I turned just enough for him to see my profile.
"Happier than I ever was here."
I left him standing alone in that conference room.
In the elevator, my hands trembled. I pressed them flat against my thighs and breathed.
That night, back at my hotel suite, I video-called the twins.
"Mummy!" Lily shrieked, her face filling the screen. "Lucas stole my crayon!"
"Did not!" Lucas protested from somewhere off-screen.
"I'll be home soon, babies," I promised, my heart aching. "Be good for Auntie Natasha."
After they hung up, I sat in the dark, staring at the city lights.
Coming back to New York was a calculated risk.
Natasha had spent four years building an airtight case against Elena Marchetti.
We had bank records, testimony from the Swiss surgeons, communication logs between Elena and a black-market geneticist.
The trap was set.
All I needed was the right moment to spring it.
And Dominic Ashford was going to hand me that moment himself, whether he knew it or not.
The next morning, a massive bouquet of white peonies arrived at my hotel.
The card read: "Let me explain. Dinner tonight. — D"
I threw the card in the trash.
An hour later, another delivery. This time, a rare first-edition architecture book I had mentioned wanting years ago.
The card: "I remember everything. — D"
I gave the book to the hotel concierge.
By afternoon, he sent a handwritten letter. Three pages. I didn't open it.
At 6 PM, my phone rang with an unknown number.
Against my better judgment, I answered.
"Stop sending things," I said.
"Then let me see you." His voice was raw, stripped of its usual authority.
"Why?"
"Because I need to apologize. Properly. Face to face."
"You had four years to apologize, Dominic."
"I know. And I've spent every one of those years regretting what I did."
"Regret doesn't undo damage."
"No," he agreed. "But I need you to know that Vivienne — everything fell apart six months after you left."
My pulse quickened, but I kept my voice neutral.
"I don't see how that's my concern."
"Serena, please. One dinner. One hour. And if you still want nothing to do with me after that, I'll walk away. I swear it."
I was quiet for a long moment.
"One hour," I said finally. "Not a second more."