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.