Lucas Bailey sat in his office at Bailey Enterprises, staring at his computer screen without really seeing it. Six months had passed since Autumn's disappearance. Six months of daily emails sent into the void, of updates from Victoria that revealed little beyond "she's fine" and "she'll contact you when she's ready." Six months of wondering what he'd done to drive her away so completely. "Mr. Bailey?" His assistant's voice interrupted his thoughts. "Your grandfather is here to see you." Lucas glanced up, surprised. William Bailey rarely left the family estate these days, his health still fragile after his stroke the previous year. "Send him in." William entered slowly, leaning on a carved wooden cane but otherwise looking remarkably well for a man who had nearly died twelve months earlier. "You look like hell," he announced without preamble, settling into the chair across from Lucas. "Good to see you too, Grandfather," Lucas replied dryly. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" William fixed him with a penetrating stare. "Your grandmother thinks you're working too hard. I think you're sulking. Either way, it's bad for business." Lucas sighed. "I'm not sulking." "No? Then what do you call this?" William gestured at him. "Dark circles under your eyes. Distracted in board meetings. Canceling dinner with the Japanese investors last week." "I had a scheduling conflict," Lucas defended. "Bullshit." William's voice was sharper now. "This is about Autumn, isn't it? She's been gone, what, six months now? And you're still moping around like a lovesick teenager." Lucas stiffened. "With all due respect, Grandfather, my personal life is none of your business." "It is when it affects the company," William countered. "And when it affects my grandson." His tone softened slightly. "Lucas, what happened between you two? I thought things were going well." The question caught Lucas off guard. During their marriage, William had never shown much interest in the personal dynamics between Lucas and Autumn, seemingly content that the business alliance with Richard Shepherd was secure. "So did I," Lucas admitted after a moment. "We were... finding our way, I think. After the divorce. And then she just left. No warning, no explanation. Just a note asking for space." William nodded thoughtfully. "Women are complicated creatures. Far more complicated than business deals or corporate takeovers." He leaned forward. "Have you considered that she might have had a good reason for leaving?" "Like what?" Lucas asked, frustration edging his voice. "What reason could possibly justify disappearing for six months without a word?" William studied him for a long moment. "Fear, perhaps. Fear that whatever was growing between you wasn't real. Fear that you might hurt her again, as you did during your marriage." The blunt assessment stung, but Lucas couldn't deny its accuracy. He had hurt Autumn during their marriage -with his indifference, with his fixation on Phoebe, with his failure to see the woman right in front of him unti it was too late. 'I've apologized for that," he said quietly. "I've tried to make amends." 'Words are easy," William replied. "Trust takes time to rebuild. And you two didn't have much time between the divorce and her departure, did you?" Lucas had to admit they hadn't. Barely two months had passed-hardly enough time to heal the wounds of a two-year marriage that had been, for most of its duration, an arrangement rather than a partnership. 'So what do I do?" Lucas asked, surprising himself with the question. He couldn't remember the last time he'd sought advice from his grandfather on a personal matter. William leaned back in his chair. "You've been sending her emails, Victoria tells me." Lucas raised an eyebrow. "You're talking to Victoria about me?" 'I talk to a lot of people about a lot of things," William said dismissively. "What matters is what you're saying to Autumn in these messages. Are you being honest with her? Really honest?" Lucas thought about the emails he'd been sending-carefully composed updates about his life, memories of their shared past, expressions of regret for opportunities missed. They were sincere, but were they honest in the way his grandfather meant? Did they reveal the depth of what he'd come to feel for Autumn in her absence? 'I'm trying to be," he said finally. William nodded. "Then keep trying. And in the meantime, take care of yourself. Eat something besides takeout. Sleep more than four hours a night. Go to the gym once in a while." He gestured at the family ring on Lucas's finger. "A Bailey doesn't neglect himself, even when his heart is troubled." After William left, Lucas sat for a long time, considering his grandfather's words. Was that what was happening? Was he heartbroken? The idea seemed absurd on the surface-how could he be heartbroken over a woman he'd married for convenience, a woman he'd only begun to see clearly in the final weeks of their relationship? And yet, the hollow feeling in his chest, the constant sense that something vital was missing from his life, the way he found himself looking for Autumn in crowds, in restaurants, in every place they'd once gone together- what else could he call it but heartache? That evening, Lucas left the office early and drove not to the penthouse but to Westlake Prep. The campus Chapter 24 5pajching for Frith was quiet now, the students gone for the day, the grounds bathed in the golden light of sunset. He made his way to the library, where Mrs. Chen was just preparing to leave. "Mr. Bailey," she greeted him, surprised. "Twice in one year-we are honored." Lucas smiled. "I'm sorry to disturb you, but I was wondering if I could look through the old yearbooks again. There's something I'm trying to find." Mrs. Chen unlocked the cabinet where the archives were kept. "Take your time. Just lock up when you're don -you remember the code, I trust?" Lucas nodded gratefully. "Thank you." Alone in the library, Lucas pulled out yearbooks not just from their senior year but from the three years prior- the entire span of his high school overlap with Autumn. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, exactly, just that he needed to understand more about the history between them, about the girl Autumn had been and the boy he'd been, about how they had connected and disconnected over the years. In their freshman yearbook, he found a photo of Autumn in the Math Club, looking serious and a bit shy, her hair longer then and her smile tentative. He had been on the basketball team, cocky and confident even at fifteen, surrounded by admiring classmates. The sophomore yearbook showed them both at a school debate, standing on opposite sides of the auditorium stage. He couldn't remember the topic now, but the caption noted that Autumn's team had won, defeating his by a narrow margin. In the photo, she looked surprised but pleased, while he appeared graciou: in defeat. By junior year, they appeared in more photos together-the academic decathlon team, the honor society, the student tutoring program where they had both volunteered. In one candid shot, they were captured laughing over something, their heads bent close together over a textbook in the library. But it was a photo in the senior yearbook that stopped him cold-a moment he had completely forgotten unt now. The Winter Formal, which they had co-hosted as the school's academic stars. In the picture, they stood side by side on the stage, surrounded by snowflake decorations and twinkling lights. Lucas was mid- sentence, clearly making an announcement to the crowd, while Autumn looked up at him with an expression of such open adoration that it took his breath away. How had he not seen it? How had he been so blind to the feelings written so clearly on her face? As he studied the photo, a memory surfaced-the countdown to midnight, Autumn standing close beside hin on that stage. He had leaned in and whispered something to her, one of his pre-competition good luck phrases. And she had responded with words that had struck him even then with their unexpected warmth: "T walking the path together." That memory led to another-a day in the school courtyard, shortly after his ankle injury. Autumn finding him brooding alone, frustrated by his forced inactivity. Instead of offering empty sympathy, she had simply sat beside him, opened her calculus textbook, and said, "Since you can't go to class, I brought class to you." And another-the day her mother had died. He had found Autumn crying in a rarely-used stairwell, her usual composure shattered by grief. Awkward and uncertain what to do, he had simply offered what he had-a handful of peppermint candies from his pocket, her favorite. She had looked at him with such gratitude, as if he'd given her something precious instead of just a few pieces of candy. Lucas closed the yearbook, overwhelmed by the flood of memories. All this time, he had thought their connection began with their arranged marriage, with the slow building of trust during their time together as husband and wife. But the truth was, it had started much earlier-in classrooms and libraries, in shared competitions and quiet moments of kindness, in a thousand small interactions he had taken for granted and then forgotten. Autumn had remembered, though. She had carried those moments with her, had treasured them enough to fall in love with him despite his obliviousness, his casual dismissal of what had clearly meant so much to her No wonder she had run. No wonder she had doubted the sincerity of his eleventh-hour declaration of love. He had spent years overlooking her, forgetting her, failing to see what had been right in front of him all along. With sudden clarity, Lucas knew what his next email to Autumn needed to be. Not just another careful ecollection or expression of regret, but the raw, unvarnished truth about who he had been, who he was now, and who he hoped to become with her, if she would give him that chance. Back at the penthouse, Lucas opened his laptop and began to write: Autumn, I went back to Westlake today and looked through our old yearbooks. I saw a photo of us at the Winter Forma -you looking up at me with an expression I was too blind to recognize then but can't stop seeing now. You oved me, even then. And I was too self-absorbed, too focused on my own path, to notice or appreciate what that meant. I've been trying to understand why you left, why you needed to get so far away from me. Tonight, I think I finally do. It's not just about our marriage, or about Phoebe, or about the night before our divorce. It's about a pattern that started years ago-me taking you for granted, overlooking what was right in front of me, failing to see your worth until it was almost too late. I remember now-the day your mother died, finding you in that stairwell. All I had to offer was some peppermint candy, but you looked at me like I'd given you something precious. You've always seen more in me than I deserved, haven't you? Always believed I was better than I actually was. 2/3 Chap 24 Stochang for Troth I want to be that man, Autumn. The one you believed in all those years ago. The one who deserves the love you've carried for so long. I don't know if it's too late. I don't know if you can ever trust me again, or if you even want to. But I need you to know that I understand now. I see you-not just the woman you've become, but the girl you were, the history we share, the connection I was too blind to recognize. I miss you. Not just as my ex-wife or my friend, but as the person who has known me longest and seen me most clearly, even when I couldn't see myself. Take all the time you need. I'll be here when-if-you're ready to talk. Lucas He sent the email before he could second-guess himself, before he could edit away the vulnerability that felt uncomfortable but necessary. Then he shut his laptop and went to stand by the window, looking out at the city lights with a strange sense of peace. He had finally told Autumn the complete truth-about his blindness, his regret, his growing understanding of what she had meant to him all along. Whether she would respond, whether she would ever return, remained to be seen. But for tonight, the truth was enough.