The second year, someone claimed they’d seen me in Paris, taking tourist photos at the Eiffel Tower.
Fletcher immediately canceled an important meeting, booked a ticket and flew straight there—only to come back empty-handed again.
In the third year, someone claimed they’d seen me working as an escort in a private club overseas.
In the fourth and fifth years, every time there was news—any whisper—about my whereabouts, Fletcher would rush to the location and investigate it himself.
This time was no different.
He truly believed the rumor might finally be real.
But instead of finding me, he was met with a stranger.
When he got back, he flew into a rage.
“How could you give me such a false report?!” he roared, hurling a glass to the floor.
His assistant went pale, trembling.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Reynold. I should’ve looked into it more carefully,” he stammered. “She was using the same phone as Miss Ashley and her face looked somewhat similar to hers, so I thought she was—”
“The woman in the wedding photo in your office…” The words slipped out barely above a whisper.
Fletcher’s expression eased slightly. In that moment, he realized it wasn’t entirely the assistant’s fault.