Chapter 1
Four Years Later
New York City: Liam’s Penthouse
The skyline of Manhattan bled gold into the dark, its lights flickering like distant stars beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of Liam Ashford’s penthouse. Inside, silence ruled, thick, curated, intentional.
Liam walked around the edge of the king-sized bed, bare and unapologetically naked, his steps fluid but heavy with something unseen. Behind him, tangled in sheets worth more than some people’s monthly rent, a woman stirred.
“Liam,” she purred sleepily, the familiar tone of post-coital entitlement curling in her voice. “Come back. Let’s just… lie here a while.”
He didn’t stop walking. Muscles flexed in his back as he reached for the bathroom door, his profile carved in dim light and detachment.
“I don’t do that,” he said, his voice cool and resolute. “You knew that coming in.”
A beat passed.
He turned halfway, finally glancing her way, his gaze distant, not cruel but cutting in its indifference.
“See yourself out. You know the way.”
Then he disappeared into the cold marble silence of his bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him with finality.
Inside, steam began to rise around him. Hot water. Cold soul.
He stared at his reflection in the mirror, eyes that had once softened for someone…only one someone. But that was four years ago.
And she’d buried herself in silence.
He never chased.
But he never forgot.
The apartment was quiet when he stepped out of the bathroom. The soft cotton sheets on the bed were rumpled, but the woman was gone. Of course she was. She knew the rules. They all did.
Liam ran a towel through his hair, not bothering to look at the untouched breakfast left by the housekeeper. Another morning. Another blank space in a life that should’ve felt full by now.
He got dressed with robotic precision, tailored charcoal suit, matte black tie, platinum Rolex watch clasped over a heartbeat that barely stirred.
He stepped out of the car as the doorman opened it with a respectful nod.
The lobby swallowed him up, glass, steel, silence. He moved like a blade through water. Controlled. Focused. Untouchable.
The elevator dinged softly as it opened onto the executive floor. Sarah, his assistant, was waiting at his door, holding his coffee, black, no sugar.
“You’ve got Milan in twenty,” she said, handing him the cup without waiting for acknowledgement. “Then the board call. Saudi investors rescheduled to tomorrow. The Vienna property consultant sent over preliminary files.”
She hesitated before adding, “And your mother called. Again.”
Liam set his coffee on the desk. “Anything else?”
Sarah pressed her lips together, then finally said, “It’s been four years, Liam. To the day. Since you took even a half-day off.”
He didn’t flinch. Just unbuttoned his jacket and sat down, eyes already on the screen. “I don’t take days off. You know that.”
Sarah watched him for a beat, seeing the steel beneath the calm. But also the wear in the corners of his eyes. “Maybe you should.”
“Sarah.” His tone was sharp, quiet. A warning in polished steel.
She paused. “Right. Not my place. Noted. You’ll get the Vienna files by noon.”
She turned to leave.
The Vienna files landed on his desk at noon sharp, just as Sarah promised. The packet was crisp, professionally bound, and stamped with the name of the acquisition: Hotel Rosenberg, a discreet five-star boutique property nestled in the heart of Josefstadt.
Liam didn’t open it right away.
Instead, he stared out the window of his 58th-floor office, coffee untouched, city humming beneath him. When he finally sat and opened the file, it wasn’t curiosity that moved his hands, it was routine. Discipline. That iron leash he wrapped around every impulse.
The hotel was already operational. Award-winning. Small but flawless. A favorite among visiting diplomats, art curators, and CEOs who didn’t want to be seen.
He scanned the notes from the acquisition team.
A stronghold property. Low risk. High visibility. No personal attachment.
Just another smart move in Ashford International’s growing hospitality portfolio.
That was the idea: work that kept him too busy to think. To remember. To want.
He hadn’t looked her up. Not once in four years.
Not after whiskey. Not after sex. Not after silence.
He’d promised her he wouldn’t.
His office had gone quiet. Even New York’s incessant hum felt muted behind the glass.
Liam was still staring at the now-closed Vienna file, he reached for his laptop and opened a browser. He typed: Vienna. Josefstadt. Lifestyle.
It was due diligence. Getting a feel for the city’s elite scene, the clientele the hotel catered to. Just business.
He clicked an article titled “The New Golden Age of Viennese Art: Faces Behind the Revolution.” It was sleek, modern. Published just two weeks ago.
He scanned.
And then he saw it.
Her name.
Chloe Marlow.
His heart didn’t skip. It stopped.
She stood in the center of a black-and-white photograph, striking in a sculptural black dress, chin lifted, arms crossed. Her hair was up. Her eyes calm, serene. Poised in front of a bold abstract piece, the caption read:
“Chloe Marlow, Executive Director of Galerie Thalberg, curates with fearless precision and empathetic vision, redefining modern patronage in Europe.”
His fingers hovered over the trackpad.
He should’ve closed it.
He promised her, promised himself he wouldn’t do this.
But his eyes betrayed him.
He kept reading.
“When she moved to Vienna four years ago, Marlow brought with her a unique sensibility, quickly establishing the Thalberg as a sanctuary for progressive voices and modern European heritage. A single mother, Marlow balances her demanding role with motherhood, often seen with her four-year-old son in tow, charming staff and artists alike with his gentle curiosity.”
Liam’s breath faltered.
He read that line again. And again.
“...single mother… four-year-old son…”
The screen blurred. His jaw clenched.
He stood suddenly, the chair groaning beneath him as it shot backward.
He paced.
One hand in his hair.
One gripping the edge of the desk like it might anchor him.
He didn’t know what he felt, rage, heartbreak, betrayal.
But above all…
Certainty.
She had a son.
Four years old.
She had a son the year she left him.
The year she broke his heart.
Liam was no fool. And he didn’t believe in coincidences.
He stormed out of his office, his strides long and urgent, shoulders squared like a man walking into war.
Sarah looked up, startled by the thunder of footsteps, her fingers paused mid-typing. Liam never came to her. Ever.
She blinked, already rising to her feet as he appeared at her door, tall and rigid, face set in a way that made her stomach knot.
“Liam? Is everything okay?” she asked carefully, concern woven through her voice.
His eyes flicked to her, dark, unreadable. “Get the jet ready. I’m leaving in one hour.”
“Wait…what? To where?”
“Vienna.”
Her mouth opened, confused. “But there’s nothing on the…”
He was already turning, already halfway back to his office.
She followed him quickly, the tension in the air electric. “Liam, what’s going on? You have the cybersecurity board at two, the briefing at three, and dinner with the Japanese delegation…”
“Cancel. Reschedule. I don’t care.”
He reached for his briefcase, laptop already shoved under his arm, coat thrown over one shoulder.
“Liam.” She stood in the doorway now, softer this time. “You’re scaring me. What’s going on?”
He froze.
Back to her. Silent for a second that stretched.
Then he turned around slowly, eyes darker than she’d ever seen them.
“She has a son,” he said, voice low and sharp. “He’s four.”
Sarah’s breath caught.
He stared at her, the mask slipping just enough for her to glimpse what was beneath it, pain, betrayal, disbelief.
“I need to find out if he’s mine,” he said.
Then, without another word, he was gone.
Sarah didn’t move for a long moment. Her pulse was still racing. The silence in the office was deafening.
Her boss, calm, impenetrable, untouchable…was shaking.
And he was going after the only woman who’d ever had the power to break him.
Vienna, Austria: 5:32 a.m.
The jet touched down just as the sky began to pale with the first traces of dawn.
From the window, Liam caught the sweeping view of Vienna’s outskirts, mist curling along the Danube, red-tiled rooftops blanketed in a sleepy haze. The city looked serene. Ancient. Untouched.
By the time the car reached the city center, the streets were nearly deserted. Just a few early risers, dog walkers, cyclists, delivery men moved through the awakening calm. The historical buildings loomed above like guardians of secrets. Liam’s eyes scanned every corner like they held answers.
Vienna. The last place he thought she would end up. And yet it made sense. The art. The culture. The romance of it all. Of course Chloe would find a home here.
He hated how his chest tightened at the thought.
When the car slowed in front of the hotel, he didn’t waste time. A sharp nod to the doorman, a quick check-in with barely a word spoken. Everyone recognized him, but no one dared interrupt.
The suite was pristine. Elegant. Quiet.
Too quiet.
Liam stripped out of his clothes methodically, the movements automatic, almost surgical. He turned the shower on full blast, letting the water hit him hard. The city couldn’t wash her out of him. Not after what he’d read. Not after that single paragraph that ended everything he had built inside to forget her.
A four-year-old son.
The words kept repeating like a curse. Four years. Just like the time he’d been gone.
After the shower, he dropped into the hotel bed, still damp, muscles taut and exhausted. But sleep didn’t come. His body was tired, but his mind was sharp, fixated. Haunted.
The last image that lingered before he finally succumbed to shallow rest was a child’s face he hadn’t seen yet.
By lunchtime Liam ate alone in the quiet dining lounge of the hotel’s private suite. He didn’t taste the food.
The silver cutlery clinked gently against the plate, his hand moving absently, his jaw tight. The staff didn’t speak unless spoken to. That’s how he preferred it today, no noise, no pleasantries, no distractions.
Afterward, he changed into a sharp navy suit, crisp white shirt open at the collar, no tie. Understated but deliberate. His reflection in the mirror was every inch the empire he’d built, controlled, intimidating, and untouchable.
But his chest felt like glass.
The car ride to the gallery was silent, except for the subtle hum of the engine. Through the tinted windows, the beauty of Vienna’s early afternoon blurred by: stately facades, blooming balconies, quiet cafés spilling laughter and espresso onto the cobblestone streets.
And then…
There it was.
Galerie Thalberg.
Minimalistic black signage. Elegant. Powerful. Just like her.
He stepped out of the car and stood for a moment across the street, his eyes locked on the entrance. Her name was on the exhibition banner hung above the archway. Curated by Executive Director Chloe Marlow.
The letters might as well have been a blade.
Four years. Four excruciating years. And in a few steps, he would see her again.
He drew in a breath, slow and silent, and crossed the street.
Each stride felt like the final seconds before impact.
The gallery’s interior was as breathtaking as its reputation promised, light, timeless, and curated to the last detail. A sanctuary of art and silence, tucked away behind the romantic facades of Vienna’s Josefstadt. The air inside smelled of stone, paper, and something faintly floral, like old elegance preserved.
Soft natural light filtered in through the high arched windows, spilling onto polished wooden floors. Abstract sculptures stood proudly beneath clean spotlighting. Paintings hung with reverence on tall white walls, each piece carefully spaced, letting the art breathe.
In the lobby, quiet voices blended with the sound of slow footsteps on hardwood. A couple stood by the ticket counter, another pair studied the current exhibition list. The staff behind the sleek black marble desk were gracious, fluent in multiple languages, their tone respectful but warm. Visitors moved past in hushed awe, the weight of culture settling on their shoulders.
But Liam didn’t notice any of that.
Not really.
Because he saw someone else.
A blur of movement. A flash of small limbs and wild energy. A little boy darted from a side corridor, giggling, mischief and freedom wrapped into one. In his tiny hand, a clear cup filled with cloudy red water, paint water, Liam realized, slopped precariously with every step. Inside, stained brushes bobbed, forgotten. The boy’s cheeks were pink, his hair slightly mussed, and his laughter bounced through the marble like a bell in a cathedral.
And then…
His foot caught on the edge of a rug.
Liam’s breath caught.
The boy fell with a surprised yelp, the cup flying from his hand. It hit the ground with a clack, and a splash of red streaked across the pale gallery floor, spreading, unstoppable, a crimson trail washing right toward Liam’s black leather shoes.
He didn’t think.
He knelt.
Strong hands reached out, lifting the boy gently but quickly, checking him over instinctively, knees, elbows, palms. “You okay, kid?” The words came out low, almost hoarse.
And then…
The boy looked up at him.
And Liam forgot how to breathe.
He was staring into his own eyes.
Not metaphorically.
Not vaguely.
Exactly.
Same shade of blue. Same striking shape. Same faint crease near the brow. Even the slope of the cheek, the stubborn tilt of the chin. His face. His blood. Right there in miniature.
The gallery disappeared. The noise. The people. Everything collapsed into a vacuum of disbelief and gut-deep recognition.
Liam stared.
The boy tilted his head, curious. “Hi,” he said shyly. “I’m hiding.”
Liam couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.
Because the undeniable truth had already detonated inside him.
This was his son
Liam forced himself to breathe.
His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat, but he steadied his voice, kept it low and even as he knelt eye level with the little boy, his little boy.
“What’s your name, buddy?” he asked, his tone careful, gentle.
The boy clutched the empty cup close to his chest like it mattered. He shifted on his feet, eyes wide but uncertain. “Mama says I’m not s’posed to talk to strangers.”
Liam’s mouth twitched into the faintest smile, because of course she would. Of course Chloe would teach him that.
“She’s right,” he said softly, nodding. “You’re very smart to remember that.”
He paused, swallowed the tightness rising in his chest. His voice was quieter now, but steady. “But I’m not a stranger,” he added. “I’m… a friend of your mom’s.”
The boy blinked at him, still hesitant.
Liam exhaled slowly and offered a hand, not to shake, just open, palm up. A show of peace.
“My name’s Liam,” he said.
There was a beat of silence.
Then, the boy peeked up at him through long lashes, his fingers tightening around the stained plastic cup. He looked down, bashful, as though revealing this next part took effort.
“My name’s Theo,” he whispered.
And that was it.
The moment Liam’s world stopped spinning.
Theo.
He said it in his mind, the name like a heartbeat.
Theo.
It filled him. Crushed him. Saved him and shattered him all at once.
But he didn’t show it.
He couldn’t.
He just gave a slow nod, keeping the emotion sealed behind his eyes as he echoed, “That’s a great name, Theo.”
He wanted to pull him into his arms, hold him until the years of absence collapsed under their own weight, but he didn’t. He couldn’t scare him.
So he remained crouched there instead, eyes steady, letting the moment burn into him.
A familiar voice, breathless, laced with worry rang out across the gallery.
“Theo?”
Liam turned his head, but he already knew.
Chloe. writing here…
