Katia

I stood on the cold pavement, the wind creeping under the thin silk of my robe as if it were laughing at me. The gate of my parents' mansion, the same house I grew up in, the same house that now stood silently behind me like it had already disowned me-remained closed, its heavy black bars glinting in the morning light. I stared at them for a long moment, not because I wanted to go back inside, but because I needed to remind myself that I was really out. This wasn't a scene or a scare tactic. I had been thrown out of my home like a broken toy, barefoot, pregnant, and wearing nothing but the robe I slept in.

But the mistake they made was thinking I had nowhere to go.

I slipped my hand into the hidden pocket on the inside of the robe, feeling the familiar chill of the encrypted phone I kept for racing, business, and everything I didn't want my mother involved in. My fingers moved on their own, pressing the icon I knew by heart. It rang twice before she picked up.

"Miss Kingston," Sam's voice came through, sharp as ever.

I didn't even know how to start. "Sam, I need you to pick me up. Now."

There was no pause. "Where are you?"

"Outside the mansion. Just me, my robe, and whatever dignity I've got left."

Sam didn't ask why. She didn't question what had happened or why I was calling her sounding like I'd been hit by a freight train. That's why she was still my assistant, my fixer, my only consistent human contact outside of racing. She got things done; no commentary needed.

"Fifteen minutes," she said, then hung up.

I stood there, arms wrapped around myself, waiting for the world to spin a little slower. My stomach was cramping slightly, and the soreness between my legs reminded me again of everything that had happened, or not happened, because honestly, I still couldn't remember half of it. I tried to take deep breaths, but they felt shallow, stuck in my throat. The front gate stayed closed behind me. Not even a curtain twitched in the windows. They didn't just want me out; they wanted me gone.

Fourteen minutes later, the matte black Rolls Royce pulled into the circle driveway like it owned the road. Sam stepped out from the driver's side in all black, her cropped hair slicked back, sunglasses hiding her eyes, and a cool, neutral expression on her face. She had always looked like she belonged more to a high-stakes intelligence agency than to my personal affairs, and right now, I was glad for it.

She popped the door open without saying a word, and I climbed in, pulling the robe tighter around me as the smell of leather and quiet power wrapped around me like a better version of home.

As she pulled out onto the street, she finally glanced over at me. "So..."

"I got kicked out," I said, voice flat. "Pregnancy doesn't fit the family aesthetic."

"I figured," Sam replied calmly. "You still have the ring?"

I nodded, holding up my left hand briefly before dropping it back into my lap.

"I couldn't find you an apartment on such short notice," she said, not missing a beat. "But I booked you a suite at the Vanté Hotel. Top floor, private entrance, 24/7 concierge, no press access. It'll keep you under the radar for now."

"Good," I said, pressing my forehead to the cool window. "How long can I stay there?"

"As long as you want. You paid for six months in advance."

I turned my head slowly. "I did?"

Sam shrugged one shoulder. "I figured we'd get here eventually."

I almost laughed. "You really don't miss, do you?"

"Not if I can help it."

We drove in silence for a while, the city moving around us as if I weren't sitting in the back of a luxury vehicle with my whole life flipped upside down. The farther we got from the house, the easier it was to breathe. My hands stopped shaking. My chest stopped burning. But the weight in my stomach, the not-so-subtle reminder of the baby inside me, stayed.

Sam parked the car in the private garage under the Vanté, scanned her ID, and led me up a secure elevator to the penthouse suite. The second the doors opened, I felt my lungs expand. Hardwood floors, floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the city, a kitchen bigger than the one at the mansion, and a king-sized bed I could finally collapse into without hearing my mother screaming in the hallway. For a second, I just stood there and let it all sink in.

"I'll have your clothes and personal items brought in by morning," Sam said, tapping her phone. "Do you want the full team back in place?"

I looked at her. "Yeah. All of them. I'm racing."

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I'm racing, Sam."

She crossed her arms. "You're pregnant."

"Still racing."

"Do you even hear yourself right now?"

"Do you hear me?" I said, more sharply than intended. "This is how I survive. This is how I work through shit. I can't just sit around waiting for life to fall back together. It doesn't work that way. I need to move."

"You could... get hurt, Kat. You have millions in your account; you can survive more than 5 years and still pay the team. Racing, no, you hurt yourself or the baby."

"I could get hurt walking down the street. I could get hurt sitting on my ass doing nothing while the rest of the world moves on without me. I'm not fragile. I'm not helpless. I'm just-" I cut myself off and sat on the edge of the bed. "I need to do something."

Sam stared at me for a long moment, then walked over and sat in the chair across from me. "Okay. You're the boss. You want races; I'll get them. I can line up three back-to-back by next week. But you need to tell me what the plan is."

"The plan is this," I said, exhaling. "I race. I race every damn day if I have to. Three months, non-stop. You have three months to make sure everything is stable-housing, new identity files, account protection, media suppression, and business management. I don't want the Windsors tracking me, and I sure as hell don't want my parents getting any closer."

"Understood. And the pregnancy?"

I looked down. "I keep it quiet. Until I can't. If I start to show, I'll wear baggy gear. The helmet stays on. I'll deal with the rest when I get there."

"And what if you get sick during a race?"

"I won't."

"And if you do?"

"Then I pull off the track, and we figure it out."

Sam nodded. "You're really not going to tell me who the father is?"

I looked out the window, the city lights flickering like stars I couldn't reach. "I can't tell you what I don't know."

She didn't flinch or pry. She just tapped her phone and stood. "All right. The first race is in two days. Nevada circuit. Closed entry, six-figure prize. I'll email you the rest."

I stood and walked toward the window, arms crossed over my chest. "Thanks, Sam."

She paused at the door. "I don't care how this looks, Katia. You're not alone in this."

The door shut behind her, and the silence that followed felt... different. Not empty. Just quiet. Just mine.

I was still wearing the ring. I was still carrying someone's baby. But for the first time in days, I wasn't scared; I was free.

Julian

The skyline of Manhattan stretched in front of me, bathed in soft light as the sun filtered through thick gray clouds, painting the city in shades of steel and silver. The windows of my high-rise office offered a sweeping view of it all, an empire of glass and concrete, money and power, but none of it felt satisfying anymore. Not the deals. Not the penthouses. Not the silence that lingered long after everyone left for the day. Six years, and I still hadn't found her. Six fucking years chasing a ghost.

I sat behind my desk, the corner office a cathedral of success, every inch tailored to me-sleek, minimal, spotless. My assistant had left my schedule printed neatly beside my coffee, which had long since gone cold. The ticking of the designer wall clock was the only sound until I heard the door open without a knock.

"Still brooding?" Zane strolled in like he owned the place. He didn't, but he was one of the few people who could walk into my space uninvited and live to tell the story.

I looked up at him, studied the smirk on his face, and knew before he even said a word that he had something to say I wouldn't like.

"By the way you look," I said dryly, "I'm guessing you've got the results."

Zane leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets, always relaxed, always amused. "Six years, man. You've been searching for six damn years."

"And?"

"And maybe it's time to stop. Let her go, Julian. You're getting married. The Kensington girl."

I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes for a second. My temples throbbed. The Kensington girl, Jesus fucking Christ.

"I don't even know what's going on with that family," I muttered. "At first, I was betrothed to Katia. Then they switched it to Delia. Like I'm a fucking product on clearance."

Zane chuckled. "Well, you kind of are. You're the Windsor heir. People expect you to marry like it's chess."

I gave him a look. "I don't even know what Delia looks like."

"You don't have to," he said with a shrug. "It's not a love match. You're marrying her for your grandmother. Duty. Legacy. All that Windsor shit."

"If not for Grandma..." I trailed off.

"If not for Grandma, you'd still be playing Phantom King in Vegas and chasing a girl whose name you don't know."

I said nothing.

Zane pushed off the wall and pulled out his phone. "Well, since you're marrying Delia Kensington, you might as well know what she looks like."

I raised an eyebrow as he tapped on his screen and handed me the phone. Instagram. Of course. A carefully curated feed of designer clothes, overpriced cocktails, vacations in Bali and Saint-Tropez, and the kind of artificial smiles you see on department store mannequins. Delia was pretty, no doubt. Blonde, bright-eyed, and painfully polished. But nothing about her felt real.

"She's not my type," I muttered.

Zane smirked. "Keep scrolling."

I did. And then I stopped.

A photo, captioned "Happy Birthday, sis, -stared up at me. Two women, side by side, but only one of them made my heart stop. She wasn't smiling in the usual way. It wasn't for the camera. She wasn't performing. She wasn't posing. There was something distant in her expression, like her mind was somewhere else. Delia was all teeth and fake affection. But her sister Katia was...real and beautiful. That name was tagged.

"She's more my type," I said quietly.

Zane nodded. "Katia. The one you were originally promised to."

"Random face on the internet, yes," I muttered, eyes scanning the screen.

Zane looked over. "Just another Kensington girl?"

I shook my head. "No. I don't know. I'm just saying the face looks familiar, that's all. But my brain doesn't remember a damn thing."

The bitterness in my voice was sharp, even to my own ears. The truth stung more every time I said it.

"It pains me that I've been chasing a ghost for the past few years. And now I have to marry some girl named Delia." I say and then go on. "The pilot told me we were making out in the chopper," I added, voice low. "Said there were stains, blood on the seat. The staff at the hotel had to burn the sheets. I woke up alone the next morning. With a ring, no name, and no trace of her."

Zane winced and leaned back in his chair. "Still can't believe you went through with it."

"I was drugged," I snapped, rubbing my temple. "Your idea of a bachelor send-off nearly got me married to a stripper."

Zane laughed. "That's slander. She wasn't a stripper."

"Right. And I wasn't blackout drunk, bleeding, and legally married to a woman I couldn't describe to a police sketch artist. Your fault, you spiked our drinks."

He held up his hands in mock surrender, the usual grin on his face fading slightly. "Tell Grandma yet?"

I shot him a cold look.

"Okay, okay," he muttered. "I'm just saying... she's been patient. For a Windsor."

I leaned forward and set the phone down on the desk with deliberate control. "You know what pisses me off the most?"

Zane raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"She's not looking for me."

The silence that followed was heavier than I liked. Zane didn't speak. Maybe for once, he didn't know what to say.

"I didn't imagine this," I went on, my voice quieter now, sharper. "The papers were real. The license. The ring. The night. It all happened. She married me. My pilot saw us. My lawyers confirmed the registration. So why the hell has she vanished?"

Zane gave a light shrug. "Maybe she doesn't remember either."

I scoffed. "She remembers. Trust me. You don't forget getting married in Vegas. Especially not to someone like me."

He stayed quiet.

"She's choosing not to come forward," I said.

"She probably thought you were just some drunk idiot with a private jet and a hard-on," Zane said. "Let's be real, Julian. That night? That wasn't exactly your finest moment."

"No," I muttered. "It wasn't."

He stood and stretched like he had all the time in the world. "Anyway. You should go home. Your grandmother's been asking more questions lately."

I stood slowly. "I'll tell her I lost the ring."

Zane froze at the door. "You're serious?"

My eyes met his. "Dead serious."

He stared at me for a beat, then nodded and left, mumbling under his breath about secrets and stubborn men.

I walked to the window and looked out over Manhattan. The streets were small from up here, ants moving through glass veins. I didn't see any of it.

I saw the blackout. The blood. The blurred memory of a voice I couldn't place. Hands on my skin. A woman's body in the dark. My ring on her finger.

But never her face. Not even once. She was gone. And the worst part was, I had no way of finding her.

She could walk past me on the street, and I wouldn't even know. She could be anyone.

I closed my eyes and tried, one last time, to conjure the memory. A detail. A sound. A name. But there was nothing. Just the flash of heat. Her breath in my ear. Her body under mine. Her voice-

"Then fuck me."

I opened my eyes, my jaw clenched tight. She was gone. But not forgotten.

I didn't care who she was. Or why she left. I didn't care what name she went by now, or if she even wore the ring anymore.

What I cared about was one simple, irrefutable fact:

She was mine.

And one day, sooner or later, I'd find her. Even if I had to tear this city apart.

I grabbed my coat and headed for the door. Time to see Grandma.

Julian's POV

The drive back home was nothing short of torture. Every stoplight, every slow turn down the winding roads leading to the Windsor estate, felt like it was dragging me closer to a funeral I didn't want to attend. Not an actual one, no. This was the death of the only thing in my life that had ever felt spontaneous and real.

The Las Vegas wife.

I gripped the steering wheel tighter as the thought surfaced again. The marriage certificate in my office drawer, one I'd kept sealed in a folder marked "Private"-only had two names on it: Jules and Kat.

No surname. No address. No contact information. Just "Kat."

The fuck is Kat?

That's all she gave me, and oh, she didn't give it to me; I only found out about that name while looking at the marriage certificate. That's all I had after six years of searching. A name scribbled in hurried ink, a memory buried beneath the haze of one too many shots and a chopper ride that ended with blood on the seats and her skin on mine. It was reckless and fucking senseless. Yet, it was the only thing that had ever made sense.

But now it was time to let it go. At least, that's what I kept telling myself as the wrought-iron gates to the estate opened automatically at my approach. The Windsor mansion stood like a monument to tradition-clean lines, grey stone, perfect symmetry. Regal. Cold. Just like the legacy I'd been born into.

I parked beside the garden and sat there for a moment, staring at the dashboard, my jaw clenching and unclenching. Then I exhaled, stepped out, and walked toward the kitchen entrance, where the smell of sugar and warm butter wafted into the driveway like bait.

Grandma was baking.

The kitchen was bathed in soft yellow light, the kind that made everything feel a little warmer than it was. My grandmother stood at the center island, her sleeves rolled up, hands dusted in flour, stirring a bowl like she was crafting something far more important than cookies. She glanced up and smiled the moment she saw me.

"There you are," she said, as if I'd just come home from school and not spent the last decade managing every Windsor acquisition from New York to Tokyo.

She pulled me into a hug, and I let her. She smelled like lavender and honey, like patience and peace. The only person in the world who could make me feel twelve again just by wrapping her arms around me.

"Thought you weren't coming," she said as she pulled back, eyes narrowing slightly. "Maybe you had plans with your model friend?"

There it was. That subtle nudge of disapproval wrapped in sweetness.

I didn't answer. She knew damn well I never talked about my love life. Especially not with her.

Across the counter, Gail, my little sister, gave me a sympathetic glance but said nothing. She knew better.

Grandma smiled again and resumed mixing her dough. "Windsor," she said without looking at me, "you know that model girl has to go."

I stiffened.

"You're having me followed?" I asked, more out of reflex than genuine curiosity.

She shook her head. "Of course not."

Liar. The woman probably had more surveillance than the CIA. She didn't just want to know what I was doing; she wanted to know why. She wanted to know who I was becoming when I wasn't under her roof.

I folded my arms and leaned against the kitchen island. "Actually, I came here to talk. Privately."

Her movements paused for only a second before she wiped her hands on a cloth and untied her apron. "Gail, keep an eye on the oven."

"Already on it," Gail said softly.

Grandma led the way to the sunroom, her steps firm and unhurried, as if she already had a sense of what was coming but was gracious enough to let me say it on my own.

We sat facing each other, light spilling across the hardwood floors. I watched her settle into the armchair, her posture regal, her expression unreadable.

She didn't speak first. She never did.

I leaned back and crossed one ankle over my knee. "Which one do you want first-good news or bad?"

Her eyebrows lifted. "Let's get the bad out of the way."

I exhaled. "I lost the family ring." Her eyes didn't flinch or narrow. She just watched me. "I'm sorry," I added. "I think it's either in my office or in one of the cars. I've searched everywhere, but I can't find it."

For a few seconds, she was quiet. Then she leaned back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap.

"Well," she said, "if anyone tries to sell it, I'll get a call. Even if it's on the other side of the world." I blinked. "No one's called," she continued. "Which means the ring is safe. And if it's safe, that means it's somewhere in your room or in your many cars."

So my ghost of a wife had kept it.

I rubbed the back of my neck. The silence stretched between us, filled with things I wasn't ready to say. Things like maybe she kept the ring because she still sees herself as my wife. Things like, why the hell isn't she looking for me? Six years is too long to stay gone. Too long not to care. Unless she didn't.

Grandma's voice broke through my thoughts. "And the good news?"

I met her gaze. "I'm ready to marry the Kensington girl."

Her eyes lit up-not with surprise, but with vindication. Like this was the ending she'd been waiting for all along. She stood without a word and headed toward the phone mounted on the wall.

"I'll make the call," she said, and then left.

I stayed in the sunroom, staring out at the garden beyond the glass. Somewhere out there, a woman had my ring. A woman I married and couldn't remember. A ghost with my name on her finger.

And she never came looking. Six years. Not a call. Not a knock. Not a single word.

I didn't even know her full name.

I closed my eyes for a second, just long enough to picture what I couldn't remember-her voice in the dark, her fingers gripping my shirt, her breath on my throat. Blood on the sheets. Her laugh. That's all I had. But it wasn't nothing. I stood slowly, jaw tight, heart heavier than I liked to admit.

As I stepped out into the crisp evening air, I realized something. The ring wasn't lost. It had simply chosen a hand. And wherever she was, she hadn't taken it off.

Maybe that meant something. Or maybe it meant nothing at all.

But I knew this much: if I ever found her-whoever Kat really was-I wasn't letting her go again.