---- Chapter 12 The next few weeks were a downward spiral for Liam. He stopped going to the office. The Pinnacle Tower project, his crowning achievement, stalled without him. He sat in our big, empty house, the one | had designed with so much love, and drank. He drank from morning until night, the expensive whiskey doing little to numb the gaping hole that had opened up in his life. He would wander from room to room, touching the things | had left behind-a book, a coffee mug, a scarf. Each object was a fresh torment, a reminder of what he had thrown away. In his drunken haze, he replayed our life together. He saw me at fifteen, helping him with his homework. He saw me at twenty, staying up all night to help him build a model for his final architecture project. He saw me at twenty-five, my face glowing with pride as they cut the ribbon on our first building. He had always taken it for granted. My love, my support, my loyalty. It was just there, a constant, solid foundation upon which he built his ambitions. He had never considered that the foundation could crack, that it could crumble and disappear from under his feet. He had played the part of the devoted partner for so long, he had started to believe his own performance. He thought the feelings he performed were real enough. ---- Now, in my absence, he was forced to confront the terrifying truth: the performance had become the reality. He needed me. And he had destroyed it all for a cheap thrill, for an echo of a high school romance. One sober morning, a thought cut through the alcoholic fog. My identity. My passport, my driver's license, my social security number. He was a man with immense resources. He could find me. He hired the best private investigator money could buy. "I don't care what it costs," he snarled into the phone. "Find her." The investigator was fast and efficient. A week later, he called Liam with a report. "We tracked her movements, Mr. Kane," the investigator said. "She flew to Paris on the day of the wedding. We checked immigration records, visa applications..." Liam's heart pounded with hope. This was it. He would have an address, a location. He would get on a plane and get me back. "But here's the thing," the investigator continued, his voice hesitant. "All of Ava Ross's official identity markers... they went cold the day she landed. Her passport wasn't used again. Her credit cards were never touched. We ran her social security number, and it's been flagged." "Flagged for what?" Liam demanded. ---- There was a pause. "It's been flagged as 'deceased,' sir. According to the official records, Ava Ross died in a car accident two days after she arrived in France." The phone dropped from Liam's hand. Deceased. Dead. The word slammed into him with the force of a physical blow. It couldn't be true. It was a trick. A lie. It had to be. But the investigator's words echoed in his head. She had erased herself so completely, she had even faked her own death. She didn't just leave him. She had made sure he could never, ever find her. He stumbled to the bar and grabbed a bottle of scotch. He thought back to something | had told him once, years ago, after he'd closed a particularly difficult deal. He had been celebrating his victory, and | had smiled at him. "You think you can't live without the thrill of the deal, Liam," | had said. "But be careful. One day you'll realize it's me you can't live without." He had laughed it off then. Now, the memory was a curse. He had lost the deal of a lifetime. He had lost me. He tipped the bottle back and drank until the world faded to black.