Avery Trevino POV:

The click of the lock echoed in the emptiness of the hallway. My phone vibrated, a relentless summons from the life I was trying to outrun. It was Clara again.

"Avery! Finally! Are you at home? Did you eat anything? Mom made your favorite, but you just stormed out." Her voice, though laced with concern, quickly shifted to its usual demanding tone. "Grant just called. He said he was going to your place. Did you two make up? We need to talk about the wedding, sweetie. All the arrangements are still set. You need to-"

"I'm not getting married, Clara," I interrupted, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken finality.

A beat of stunned silence from the other end. Then, Clara' s voice, tentative, uncertain. "Avery... don't be silly. Are you still upset about... that other woman? Grant's worth it, honey. He's rich, handsome, powerful. You have to understand, men like him... they have a past. Just overlook it. Be smart. Be patient."

The words were a bitter echo of my mother's earlier pleas. Be smart. Be patient. Endure. The familiar narrative, woven into the fabric of my family, choked me. I closed my eyes, a sharp pang of pain piercing through my chest. I fought back the sob that threatened to tear through my throat.

"I'll call you later, Clara," I managed, my voice strained, and hung up before she could say another word.

I walked aimlessly through the city streets, the neon glow of billboards assaulting my senses. My gaze snagged on a massive LED screen flashing a crisp, professional image of Grant Sutton. It was a financial news segment, highlighting his "transformation" into a responsible, philanthropic leader, expanding Sutton Holdings into ethical investments. My stomach churned. The hypocrisy was a bitter taste in my mouth. I calmly looked away. He was a ghost, a memory that held no power over me anymore.

Suddenly, the screen changed. A news ticker scrolled across the bottom: Investigative Journalist A. Trevino Fired from Nexus Global News. Sutton Holdings Considers Legal Action for Defamation. Sources Cite 'Journalistic Misconduct' and 'Unethical Reporting Practices.'

The screen then flashed to a grainy clip of me, from months ago, being publicly criticized by a rival reporter for a controversial piece. The comments section, scrolling furiously below, was a cascade of venom: \"Disgraceful!\" \"She's just a bitter woman!\" \"Another female reporter trying to stir trouble!\"

My vision blurred, not with tears, but with a searing, helpless rage. Years. Years I had dedicated to the truth, to shedding light on darkness. I had never once compromised my ethics, never published a single word I didn't believe to be true, backed by irrefutable evidence. And now, my entire career, my reputation, my very identity, was being systematically dismantled by the man I had almost married.

A cold, heavy drop splattered on my cheek. Then another. And another. Without warning, the heavens opened, and rain began to fall in sheets, blurring the city lights into shimmering streaks. Pedestrians shrieked, scattering for shelter, umbrellas blossoming like frantic flowers.

But I stood there, rooted to the spot, letting the icy deluge wash over me. The rain plastered my hair to my face, blurring my vision, indistinguishable from the tears that finally, silently, streamed down my cheeks.

Across the street, a young couple huddled under a single umbrella, laughing, wrapped in each other's arms. Further down, a family of three, a father hoisting a small child onto his shoulders, raced for cover, their joy radiating even through the downpour.

I felt utterly, completely alone. Abandoned. A forgotten discarded thing, left to drown in the cold, unforgiving rain. The pain was a physical entity, a crushing weight that pinned me to the pavement.

I didn't know how I made it back to my apartment. My clothes were soaked, clinging to me like a second skin. I didn't bother to change. I stumbled into the living room and collapsed onto the sofa, shivering uncontrollably. The cold seeped into my bones, chilling me to the core. My head throbbed, my limbs felt heavy and unresponsive. I knew, with a detached certainty, that I was burning up with fever.

My eyelids fluttered, my consciousness drifting in and out, a fragile boat on a restless sea. I felt myself floating, high above, looking down. I saw my father, his face now wreathed in smiles, proudly showing off Grant's expensive watch. My mother, timidly accepting my sister's excited chatter about future plans, the "unfortunate delay" forgotten. I saw Grant, his hand resting on Ivory's back, whispering something in her ear, his eyes full of tenderness. I saw the newsroom, brightly lit, bustling with activity, as if I had never existed, my desk already cleared, my name already erased.

Then, with a jolt, I crashed back into my body, the cold, hard reality of the sofa pressing against me. I blinked, my eyes gritty, as the pale morning light streamed through the window. It was day three since the rain. Three days. I had been unconscious, lost in a feverish haze.

My throat was raw, dry. I pushed myself up, my muscles protesting with every movement. My body felt weak, fragile. I stumbled into the bathroom, flicked on the light. The reflection in the mirror was a stranger: pale, gaunt, dark circles under her eyes, her lips cracked and dry. It was the face of a woman who had given everything, and lost it all.

I turned on the shower, letting the hot water cascade over me, a physical attempt to wash away the grime, the pain, the defeat. When I emerged, my skin red and stinging, I felt a flicker of something new. A cold, hard resolve.

I walked into the living room and pulled out the small, black suitcase I had packed weeks ago. I added a few more essentials, then zipped it shut. No sentimental glances. No lingering regrets. Just a cold, clear path forward.

I stepped out of the apartment, the keys already left on the counter. The airport hummed with the quiet symphony of departures and arrivals. The announcement for my flight, "Flight BA268 to London Heathrow," echoed through the vast hall. I passed through security, the metal detectors silent witnesses to my passage.

I walked towards the international departures gate, my gaze fixed on the enormous glass wall overlooking the runway. Planes, immense steel birds, soared into the sky, then descended gracefully. My future was out there, beyond the clouds.

"Flight BA268 is now boarding."

I picked up my suitcase and walked towards the gate. The plane roared down the runway, then lifted, climbing steeply into the endless blue. As we broke through the clouds, the sun burst forth, a blinding, glorious golden light. It was a new dawn. A new life.

Grant Sutton POV:

My thumb hovered over Avery' s contact, the screen cool beneath my touch. The last message, my frantic apology about the wedding "mishap," remained stubbornly unread. Three days. Three agonizing, silent days.

She' s probably still angry, I told myself, a weak attempt to rationalize her silence. She has every right to be. I deserved her anger. The way I handled Ivory, the way I let my family, and then Ivory herself, humiliate Avery. It had been a monumental failure on my part. A colossal mistake.

"Is the gift ready?石头" I asked my assistant, Leo, who stood patiently by my desk. "The one for Avery's family. Something truly generous."

"Yes, Mr. Sutton," Leo confirmed. "A custom-made diamond necklace for Mrs. Trevino, a vintage Rolex for Mr. Trevino, and a trust fund for Miss Clara. All delivered discreetly to their estate this morning."

I nodded, a muscle in my jaw ticking. "Good. And what about Avery? Has she responded to my messages? My calls?"

Leo hesitated, his gaze briefly meeting mine before darting away. "No, sir. Still no response."

A knot tightened in my chest. "Keep trying. And send another message to her, apologizing again. Tell her I understand she needs space, but I want to talk. Face to face."

"Yes, Mr. Sutton."

I signed the last of the contracts, my mind miles away. This Phoenix Development deal, it was supposed to be my legacy, my clean slate, solidifying Sutton Holdings' legitimate future. But it felt hollow without her.

I picked up my phone again. The chat window remained blank. The silence screamed at me. A flicker of irritation, then a cold wave of fear washed over me. This wasn't like Avery. She was disciplined. Even when angry, she usually responded eventually.

"Cancel my afternoon meetings," I told Leo, rising from my chair. "I'm going to Avery's apartment. I need to see her." I needed to see her. Needed to explain. Needed to fix this.

I arrived at her building, my heart thumping against my ribs. I pressed the doorbell, a polite, insistent chime. No answer. I tried again. Still nothing.

A nosy neighbor, a woman I vaguely recognized, poked her head out of the adjacent apartment. "Oh, Mr. Sutton! Looking for Avery? She left a few days ago. With a suitcase." The neighbor smiled, oblivious. "Probably on one of her big reporter trips, huh? She always goes on those."

My throat tightened. A suitcase? She hadn't said anything about a trip. Was she... running from me? The thought sent a jolt of icy fear through me.

My phone rang, startling me. It was Ivory. Her voice, sharp and demanding, cut through my thoughts. "Grant, where are you? We have that meeting with the city council in an hour. You need to be here. Now."

"I'm on my way," I said, forcing a calm into my voice. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."

I sent a quick text to Avery. Heard you're on a trip. Be safe. Call me when you get back. It felt hollow, inadequate.

The meeting with the city council was a brutal, drawn-out affair. Ivory, sharp as a whip, argued our case with a cold, clear logic, dissecting their points with surgical precision. I admired her tenacity, her brilliance. She was a force of nature. But even as she spoke, my mind kept drifting to Avery.

It was late, well past midnight, when we finally wrapped up. Ivory walked to the panoramic window of the conference room, gazing out at the glittering cityscape. "Just like old times, isn't it, Grant?" she murmured, her voice soft, wistful. "Working late, side by side."

I didn't answer. My gaze drifted to my phone, lying on the table. Still no reply from Avery. The silence was a persistent, nagging ache.

Ivory turned, her eyes narrowed, a faint, knowing smile playing on her lips. "Still worrying about her, aren't you? That reporter."

"She's on a business trip," I said, my voice flat, trying to sound dismissive. "She hasn't checked in."

Ivory turned fully, her expression unreadable. "Tell me, Grant. Are you still going to go through with the wedding?" Her question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning.

I hesitated. "I have my considerations." The words felt forced, hollow. My head was a battlefield of warring thoughts. My duty. My past. And the gaping, undeniable void Avery had left.

Ivory didn't press further. A fleeting shadow crossed her eyes, a complex mix of disappointment and something else I couldn't quite decipher.