Molly Lin wasn't the only one wrestling with the Tribeca night.
Across the city, in a penthouse overlooking Central Park, Liana Hartley tossed and turned, the plush silk sheets feeling like sandpaper against her skin. Her phone screen, dimmed but relentless, displayed the damning evidence: **#WallStreetRecluseMysteryGirl**. She'd brushed off Ethan Shaw's flimsy "urgent business" excuse earlier, assuming it involved Shaw Enterprises' rumored quarterly dip. But *this*? Pictures of him laden with shopping bags, flanking a stunning, unidentified brunette? Her carefully orchestrated plan to make Cole Sterling jealous lay in ruins. Worse, Ethan hadn't even *tried* to explain!
*He said he was busy… busy shopping with someone else?* The thought was a poison dart. He worshipped the ground she walked on! How could he? The sting of rejection warred with a rising tide of panic. Had she pushed him too far? Was she losing her leverage? She hadn't accepted the measly $50,000 transfer, expecting more – a diamond bracelet, perhaps, or a weekend in St. Barths. But he hadn't sent another dime.
Finally, her pride shattered. She snatched her phone and stabbed out a message.
> **[Liana: Ethan. Saw the photos. So your 'urgent business' was playing personal shopper? Who is she?]**
The message hung in the digital void, unanswered. Ethan Shaw was asleep. His sleep, usually deep and untroubled, had been shattered minutes before by the jarring ring of his phone at 4 AM.
Groaning, he fumbled in the darkness, his hand closing around the cool glass of his phone. An unknown number glowed on the screen. Ethan had a long-standing policy: he answered every unknown caller. For years, *his* personal number had been listed on the countless flyers, websites, and private investigator reports searching for Leo. The deluge of hoaxes and dead ends eventually forced a switch to Carla, then to dedicated Shaw Enterprises security lines. But his number remained unchanged. Hope, however slim, dictated he pick up. Maybe someone, somewhere, had seen an old flyer…
He pushed himself upright against the headboard, the obsidian stones cool against his wrist. "Yeah?" His voice was thick with sleep.
A beat of silence. Then, a man's voice, low and unnervingly controlled, devoid of any discernible emotion, sliced through the line: "I need to speak with Molly Lin. Is she available?"
Ethan's spine straightened instantly. "Who is this? What do you want with Molly?" Adrenaline burned away the grogginess. Molly was back barely a day. Who called at 4 AM demanding her?
*Click.* The line went dead.
Ethan stared at the phone, bewildered. He immediately hit redial. Nothing. Only silence. He sank back, the darkness suddenly feeling heavier, more watchful. His fingers found the obsidian stones, rolling them with a nervous click. *Who the hell…?*
He unlocked his phone, the screen's harsh light stinging his eyes. That's when he saw Liana's message. He frowned. *She saw the pictures?* But why wait until past midnight? Unless… He opened a news aggregator app. The trending topics confirmed it. Paparazzi shots. *Damn it.* Carla usually filtered this noise. Why hadn't she flagged it? Too late to call her now.
The cryptic 4 AM call gnawed at him. An old acquaintance spotting Molly in the grainy photos? But why *this* hour? And the abrupt hang-up… The only person who might recognize Molly from such poor angles, fueled by some twisted nostalgia… Cole Sterling. The thought curdled in his gut. Cole, with his revolving door of starlets and his callous use of Liana for publicity, was toxic. And Molly… Ethan feared the ghost of her teenage feelings might resurface. He couldn't let Cole near her. With a decisive tap, he blocked the unknown number. Liana's message could wait until morning; he wouldn't risk waking her. He lay back down, but sleep was a distant shore.
---
Molly, though intensely curious about the pre-dawn call, respected privacy. After grabbing water, she didn't retreat to her sterile, sleepless room. Instead, she drifted towards the expansive second-floor terrace overlooking the quiet Tribeca street. Leaning on the cool glass railing, she gazed up at the Manhattan sky, a murky canvas washed in the orange glow of the sleepless city. The air held a pre-dawn chill, carrying the faint, metallic tang of… something? A dull ache pulsed in her palm.
The low visibility meant she didn't see the sleek, dark sedan parked discreetly down the block, its engine off, lights dimmed.
Inside the car, Xavier Thorne sat rigidly. The scent of copper – his own blood – mingled with the expensive leather upholstery. A small, precise cut marred his palm, the pain a necessary anchor. But his eyes, behind the silver-framed glasses reflecting the dim dashboard lights, burned with an intensity that bordered on feverish. *She was real.* Not a hallucination born of grief and countless disappointments.
Seeing that fragmented paparazzi shot had ignited a wildfire within him. Rationality screamed *impossible*. Molly Lin was dead. Eleven years. A tragic accident, a fruitless search, a closed case. Yet, his heart, that traitorous organ, hammered a frantic, undeniable counterpoint: *Her.* Ethan Shaw escorting her made a terrifying kind of sense. But *how*?
The conflict had been agony, a physical pressure threatening to crack his ribs. He'd dismissed Finn, commandeered the wheel, and driven straight to Ethan's Tribeca fortress – an address easily obtained as Shaw's largest investor. Standing sentinel outside the imposing, locked gates, invisible to the occupants, the rational and the desperate waged war. He couldn't storm the castle. The risk of terrifying her, or worse, facing yet another crushing error in judgment, was paralyzing. How many times had he chased a fleeting resemblance across continents, only to have hope shatter? But the lack of a body… that tiny, stubborn ember of possibility had never fully died.
Driven past endurance, he'd found Ethan's old, private number – a relic from the desperate Leo searches. He called. Ethan's guarded response – "Who is this? What do you want with Molly?" – wasn't the expected denial or outrage. It was confirmation. *She was there.*
The euphoria that followed was near-suffocating. He'd hung up, trembling, only to look up and see her. A silhouette against the terrace glass, indistinct but achingly familiar. Less than fifty yards away. The sight stole his breath. The sharp bite of the penknife against his palm was the only thing that grounded him, proving this wasn't another cruel dream. *Alive.*
Now, hidden in the pre-dawn gloom, the impeccably dressed venture capitalist became a silent voyeur. His gaze, stripped of its usual detached intellect, held a raw, possessive hunger as it traced the outline of the figure on the terrace. He cataloged the tilt of her head, the way she leaned on the railing – small details magnified into profound intimacy. Even when she finally turned and vanished back inside, his eyes remained fixed on the spot where she'd stood. *Maybe she'll come back. Maybe…*
A new thought pierced his obsessive focus, sharp as the knife had been. Her posture… the hour… Was she struggling? Did the unfamiliar luxury feel like a cage? His beautiful, brilliant *spark*… cursed with the same relentless insomnia? A flicker of protective concern momentarily softened the intensity in his eyes. Then, another thought surfaced. A slow, breathtakingly beautiful smile touched his lips as he adjusted his glasses with a single finger. A plan, elegant and inevitable, began to crystallize.
---
"Molly, what happened? You look like you wrestled a raccoon and lost!" Ethan's voice cut through the morning quiet as he entered the sleek, sunlit kitchen. Molly sat slumped at the marble breakfast bar, nursing a massive cup of coffee Carla had delivered. Dark circles bruised the skin under her eyes.
Molly blinked owlishly. "Couldn't sleep. Maybe caught… five winks?" She stifled a yawn. "Jet lag's a beast."
The sight triggered Ethan's memory. Her sleep issues – the near-crippling need for the familiar sanctuary of her own space. He slid onto a stool beside her. "The insomnia's back? Should we… try to find your old bed? Have it shipped here?"
Molly shook her head, the movement slow and heavy. "It's the place, not the bed. Like my brain forgot how to shut down anywhere else." She leaned her chin on her hand. "Do you know who bought the townhouse? The one with Mom's roses? Maybe… maybe they'd sell it back?"
Ethan's expression tightened. "No idea. It could have changed hands multiple times by now." The weight of those memories was something he actively avoided.
Carla, efficiently setting out pastries, spoke up. "I can initiate a property records search today, Molly." Her tone was calm and capable.
Molly turned, her weary face brightening with genuine warmth. She leaned her head briefly against Carla's arm. "Carla, you're a lifesaver! Seriously."
A faint blush touched Carla's cheeks. The Dalton legend she'd admired from afar was proving to be disarmingly warm and direct. She handed Molly a perfectly peeled hard-boiled egg before turning to Ethan. "Sir, your schedule: The 9 AM call with Tokyo regarding the semiconductor deal…"
As Carla detailed the day's obligations, Ethan's mind snagged on the previous night's digital storm. He waited until she finished. "Carla, the… social media situation last night. The pictures. Were you aware?"
Carla's gaze flickered almost imperceptibly towards Molly.
Molly straightened slightly, her expression cooling as she met Ethan's eyes directly. "I asked Carla not to intervene." Her voice held a quiet firmness.