Chapter 5

The expansive, high-ceilinged conference room, situated on the top floor of the corporate tower, still hummed faintly with the lingering, almost palpable aftertaste of my undeniable success.

The meticulously negotiated Armani deal had finally, officially closed—a monumental milestone that I had pursued with the cold, relentless, unwavering precision of a master hunter tracking elusive prey.

The final, signed papers were stacked impeccably high on the highly polished mahogany table, a mountain of victory, my expensive, heavy pen resting almost theatrically on top of them, as though it, too, had been utterly exhausted by the immense weight of the countless signatures it had just facilitated.

Grace leaned casually against the luxurious chair beside me, her arms folded firmly across her chest, her sharp, perceptive eyes narrowed slightly at me with that familiar, potent mix of professional admiration for my cunning and utter personal exasperation at my methods.

“So, Avery,” she began, her tone instantly laced with that specific, playful mock amusement that always characterized our banter. “Is this, by chance, your new, refined tactic for conducting complex international business? Intimidating the absolute hell out of every single person across the table until they finally break and fall perfectly in line with your demands?”

I instantly gave her the look, the notorious, confident smirk instantly tugging at the corner of my lips as I meticulously adjusted the expensive fabric of my blazer, smoothing out an invisible crease.

“No, Grace. You misunderstand completely. This isn’t a mere tactic, which suggests improvisation. This, my dear, is a carefully executed strategy. You know exactly how I operate—I simply do not, and will not, tolerate anyone who dares to foolishly raise their head against the Von Carters. First, I precisely identify every single key stakeholder, every vulnerability, every point of pressure within their structure.”

“Then, one by one, like removing pieces from a complex clockwork mechanism, I force them, subtly and legally, to pull out of the deal or challenge the existing authority. By the precise time the main board members finally realize the severity of what is truly happening, they are already standing precariously on a rapidly sinking ship with no lifeboats. And when the icy water is literally up to their necks, chilling their collective spines, that is the perfect, critical moment when I swoop in and formally take over. Indirectly, through their inevitable failure and my subsequent acquisition, they end up generating a massive, profitable fortune for me, and only me. Fascinating, wouldn’t you agree?”

Her scoff was immediate, a short, sharp burst of genuine laughter laced with pure disbelief as she vehemently shook her head, her dark hair swaying.

“You are absolutely ruthless, Avery. Utterly without mercy or feeling.”

I leaned deliberately back further in my chair, allowing the word to hang heavy in the air, my intense gaze locking firmly with hers, challenging her simple classification.

“No, I am not genuinely ruthless, Grace. I am simply highly efficient. There is a crucial difference in the outcome.”

Grace arched a perfect brow, her lips twitching into a knowing, irritating half-smile that suggested she knew the precise truth, regardless of my spin.

“Of course, Avery. That’s precisely what every single genuinely ruthless person invariably says to excuse their actions.”

The playful banter was meant to be light, a temporary release of post-deal tension, but her stark, simple word—Ruthless—lingered in the air, cutting deeply.

Maybe, I conceded privately, she wasn’t entirely wrong in her assessment, but I knew with unwavering certainty that in the cold, unforgiving world of high-stakes global operations, showing genuine mercy was simply viewed as another fatal form of weakness, a vulnerability I could ill-afford.

“Anyway,” she said, smoothly breaking the charged silence and glancing pointedly at the massive stack of signed contracts. “The Armani deal is finally, unequivocally finalized. Shouldn’t you immediately inform Reynolds to fly in and formally take over the complete handlings from this point forward? He’s the expert closer.”

I nodded once, sharply.

“Yes. Reynolds will handle all the administrative tie-up of the loose ends from here. He was already fully briefed on Armani’s complex internal structure and key personnel before we even left the country. He’ll handle the transition process smoothly and invisibly.”

Grace instantly exhaled, a visible, physical weight seemingly lifting completely from her slender shoulders.

“Good. Then, since we find ourselves unexpectedly here, in France of all culturally rich places… why don’t we finally give ourselves the rare luxury of taking some time, say a few hours, to simply explore the city and genuinely enjoy the culture?”

Her genuinely unexpected suggestion, an invitation to step away from the machine, transiently pulled a rare, genuine smile from me—one that reached my eyes.

The city, with its captivating historic charm, its winding, ancient streets, and its renowned culinary excellence, had always held a specific fascination for me from a remote, professional distance, though I had never previously allowed myself the sheer luxury of truly enjoying it for pleasure.

“Alright, Grace,” I instantly agreed, the decision surprisingly easy. “Let’s temporarily abandon the spreadsheets and go be tourists. Let’s do it.”

We quickly left the stark, sterile building and immediately stepped out into the golden, forgiving embrace of the late afternoon sun, which cast long shadows down the wide streets.

The historic, central streets were instantly alive, bursting with vibrant, easy energy—charming outdoor cafés spilled noisily out onto the sidewalks, filled with loud, excited chatter; the intoxicating scent of freshly baked bread and rich, dark chocolate drifted seductively through the narrow, crooked lanes; and talented street musicians wove complex, uplifting melodies into the soft, constant hum of the dense crowd.

For a fleeting, precious few hours, I allowed myself the immense, restorative indulgence of being just another anonymous face lost in the bustling rhythm of the city, not the imposing Avery Von Carter whose name carried such suffocating weight in every room on the continent.

Grace and I wandered aimlessly together through old, cobblestone alleys, our conversation light and unrestrained, pausing frequently to admire the ancient, weathered architecture that seemed to audaciously hold centuries of whispered, intimate stories behind its peeling facades.

We laughed brightly and unrestrainedly at silly street vendors who tried their absolute best to loudly upsell us on cheap, brightly colored scarves we didn’t need, took dozens of candid, goofy pictures by the majestic, slow-moving river, and for those short, fleeting few hours, I genuinely felt lighter, unburdened, and surprisingly, simply happy.

As the beautiful, golden evening stretched lazily on, sinking toward twilight, Grace pressed a theatrical hand dramatically against her stomach, a sign that the pleasure trip was nearing its end.

“Okay, Boss, I’m officially starving now. My digestive system is filing a formal complaint against you. If I don’t find food quickly, you might seriously have to physically carry me back to the hotel suite.”

I chuckled, a low, easy sound, and immediately scanned the busy street for viable culinary options.

My eyes quickly caught and settled on a small, unassuming café tucked cozily into the very corner of the lane we were on.

It wasn’t flashy or loud, but it looked invitingly cozy—its warm, amber lights spilled generously out onto the darkening pavement like an open, quiet invitation, and the faint, haunting strains of delicate piano music drifted gently from inside the building.

Something immediate and visceral about that specific, hidden café slots instantly tugged at me, a quiet, insistent pull deep in my chest that I simply couldn’t explain or rationalize.

Grace, following the direction of my suddenly fixed gaze, peered past me.

“That one, Avery? It looks charmingly rustic and maybe a little expensive.”

I nodded slowly, a strange, creeping unease suddenly stirring unexpectedly in my gut, contradicting the calm scene.

“Yeah. Let’s go there. It feels right.”

We quickly crossed the narrow street, the faint, residual laughter of nearby children still ringing softly in the evening air.

But the second my foot crossed the threshold and I stepped inside the dimly lit, cozy warmth of the café, something struck me, instantly and violently—a scent, faint yet utterly unmistakable, piercing the gentle aroma of roasted coffee beans and sugar.

My breath instantly hitched violently in my throat, cutting off my air supply.

It was a specific, rare perfume that I knew, intimately, too well to ever forget.

The very scent I had personally selected and gifted her years ago, the only one she ever wore, the one that used to wrap itself around me on those quiet, private nights when she would curl intimately into my side.

The familiar, devastating scent instantly wrapped itself completely around me like a cold, suffocating ghost, immediately choking me with a thousand brutal, agonizing memories I had desperately tried for years to bury deep inside the soil of my past.

My heart instantly hammered a frantic, desperate rhythm against the wall of my chest as my eyes, wide and searching, swept frantically and desperately across the cozy, crowded room, searching for the source of the devastation.

Then, inevitably, it came—the voice.

Soft, incredibly familiar, instantly recognizable, and yet piercing through the seemingly endless years like absolutely no time had passed since I last heard it.

“Ethan, please don’t fuss over the bread and make a mess here and there,” the voice gently, affectionately called out, its tone firm yet laced with an undeniable tenderness that tore through my defenses.

The entire world surrounding me instantly stilled, paused, as if someone had brutally pulled the universe’s emergency brake.

My chest tightened agonizingly, painfully, fiercely.

Every single muscle in my body instantly froze, rigid and unmoving, as though I had been violently struck down by a powerful, devastating bolt of pure lightning.

That haunting, unforgettable voice belonged to only one person in my entire life, and I knew it with a sickening, crushing certainty.

Then, a small, bright, childish giggle immediately followed the tender command.

“Okay, Mom. I’ll be careful.”

The single, simple word—Mom—echoed and reverberated violently in my ears like the cruelest, most brutal twist of fate imaginable.

My carefully constructed vision instantly blurred dangerously as a wave of paralyzing, suffocating panic surged through my entire system, blinding me.

Mom.

Tiffany was here, right here, merely feet away, hidden only by the café counter, and she had a child.

A son.

I couldn’t move a single muscle, couldn’t draw a single, necessary breath.

My legs instantly felt weak, utterly disconnected from my brain, feeling as though they would suddenly give out completely under my immense, self-imposed weight.

I instantly spun around, turning sharply on my heel, and blindly, desperately stormed back out of the warm, inviting café before she could possibly step out from behind the counter and complete the devastation by seeing me.

My chest felt suddenly constricted, painfully tight, as though an invisible hand had instantly sucked the very necessary air from my lungs in one cruel, violent motion.

I stumbled blindly out onto the cold, hard street, gripping the unforgiving, cold stone wall of the building with both hands, frantically gasping for any small pocket of air.

Grace immediately hurried out after me, her heels clattering loudly and urgently on the unforgiving pavement, her face a mask of immediate, professional alarm.

“Avery!” she exclaimed, her voice momentarily trembling with genuine fear and alarm at my immediate physical distress.

She instantly reached me, placing a strong, steadying, grounding hand firmly on my shaking back.

“Avery, look at me! Just look directly at me! You need to breathe with me, right now. In and out, slow and deep. Come on, you have to try.”

Her familiar, authoritative voice was the only lifeline I had left, a desperate anchor pulling me, painstakingly, roughly, back from the terrifying, breaking edge of utter emotional collapse.

Slowly, painfully, raggedly, I inhaled a deep, searing breath, then slowly exhaled the cold, sharp air, which instantly cut like thousands of tiny shards of glass deep inside my lungs.

After what felt like a nightmarish, frozen eternity, I finally managed to speak, though my voice was a broken, hoarse whisper, raw with unshed tears and sudden, painful realization.

“Tiffany… Grace, she’s here. Right there, inside the café.”

Grace’s perceptive eyes immediately widened, the sickening, cold realization instantly dawning fully as she quickly pieced together the devastating fragments—the sudden, violent flight, the sheer physical panic, the pain in my hoarse voice.

“That voice… That incredibly tender voice? That was her?”

Grace’s hand remained firmly and reassuringly placed on my violently shaking back, effectively stabilizing me, but her eyes relentlessly searched mine with a desperate, intense focus that absolutely demanded a full, honest explanation for the profound collapse.

“Avery… I need you to tell me what happened back there? What, precisely, happened between the two of you… that ultimately led to this devastation?” she asked softly, her voice now stripped bare and carrying a profound, genuine, heartbreaking concern that somehow bypassed all my protective walls.

I finally turned slowly to face her fully, the sudden, unbearable weight of a thousand agonizing, lost memories pressing down relentlessly against my already constricted chest.

My lips parted slightly, but only a shaky, ragged breath escaped.

“It’s an incredibly long, complicated, stupid story, Grace,” I admitted truthfully, my voice barely above a painful whisper, fragile and uncertain, as if I were a scared child.

Grace gently tilted her head, her look patient, gentle, but clearly insistent on hearing the truth.

“I’ve suddenly got all the time in the world you need, Avery,” she said quietly, her loyalty and patience an unexpected comfort in the face of the personal catastrophe.

I swallowed hard, painfully, forcing the dry, trapped air down my throat, my frantic, racing mind instantly replaying the devastatingly vivid, cinematic scenes I had desperately tried for years to bury deep under mountains of paperwork—the bright, shared laughter, the tender, soft touches, the private, quiet nights when the vast, cold world had miraculously seemed to shrink down to just us two, and only us.

“I met her years ago, Grace,” I began slowly, cautiously, the raw, difficult words tentative, testing the dark, murky waters of the past.

“And… I fell utterly, completely, terrifyingly in love with her. Completely. Entirely. She… she loved me back, too. More fiercely, more completely than I could ever have possibly imagined was possible for a cynical bastard like me.”

Grace listened patiently, intently, nodding once, encouragingly, but maintaining a profound, respectful silence, allowing me the necessary space and time to continue the raw, difficult confession.

“And then… she simply left me,” I finally finished, the final, simple word leaving my voice cracked, fragile, and utterly shattered, as though the mere act of saying the final, brutal truth aloud could shatter the remaining fragments of my soul.

“I still don’t know precisely why she abandoned me. I honestly still don’t know the reason why, to this very second. But she utterly disappeared from my life, vanished without a trace… and it honestly felt, for a very long time, like a foundational, crucial part of my very soul instantly went with her, never to return.”

I immediately looked down at my own trembling hands, noticing for the first time how fiercely I was gripping the strap of my heavy bag, holding it like a desperate, sole lifeline against the chaotic emotional storm raging within me.

“I’ve… I’ve tried so damn hard to move on with my life, Grace. I’ve tried desperately to focus only on my work, on my endless responsibilities, on everything logical and measurable. But seeing her here, now, unexpectedly… with a child, a son… it’s like all the crucial, fragile pieces of my life I delusionally thought I had successfully put back together just… immediately, irrevocably fell apart into sharp, painful pieces again.”

Grace’s entire expression instantly softened, deep understanding and profound sympathy now reflected fully in her luminous eyes, the knowledge of my immense pain clearly resonating with her.

“I get it, Avery,” she said quietly, her voice full of unexpected warmth. “I truly can’t even begin to imagine how hard and utterly devastating that must be for you to face right now. But Avery… it’s profoundly clear to me how intensely you still care for her.”

I simply nodded, my chest aching, heavy and tight, the torrent of words I truly wanted to scream trapped brutally behind a painful knot in my throat.

“I do care, Grace,” I whispered, the admission a terrifying, sacred vow. “More than anything logical or professional. And seeing her here, totally unexpected… it just brutally reminded me of absolutely everything important that I lost that day she walked away.”

Grace squeezed my shoulder gently but reassuringly.

“Then we will figure this entire mess out, Avery. Together. Step by step, just like we handle a hostile takeover. You’ve got this, Boss, you always do. And… maybe, just maybe, it’s not truly too late to fix some of the devastating, broken things between you two.”

I slowly lifted my intense gaze to meet hers, a terrifying, exhilarating flicker of raw hope instantly mingling with the immense, deep ache in my chest.

For the very first time in a painfully long time, I felt the raw, undeniable pulse of possibility—the terrifying realization that this painful, intimate story of ours might not be finished after all, that this devastating, lost chapter might still have an unexpected, beautiful beginning yet to be written.

And deep inside, burrowed beneath the immense, cold weight of my calculated approach, the endless schedules, and the fierce power I had painstakingly built up to protect myself, I suddenly realized something terrifying, utterly exhilarating, and undeniably true: I still loved her.

And now… she was here, right here, merely feet away, no longer a ghost of the past but a solid, terrifying reality in the present.

Grace looked intently at me, searching my eyes for the final answer.

And then, despite the pain, despite the fear, a small, genuine, self-deprecating laugh escaped me.

“Okay, Grace, fine. You win the point.”

I took a deep, steadying breath, the air no longer feeling like glass in my lungs, the adrenaline settling into a new, fierce determination.

“So, let’s begin the entire, impossible story from the very beginning, shall we?”