A high-end Italian espresso machine hummed as it filled his cup. His closet held dozens of custom suits.
He picked one without thinking.
The apartment was silent.
Always silent.
No photos.
No memories.
No signs of a real life.
It looked luxurious.
But it felt empty.
His phone buzzed.
“Board meeting at 9,” his assistant said.
“The Harrison deal closed—$12 million.”
“Good,” Ethan replied.
The number meant nothing to him.
He walked into his office, opened a locked drawer, and stared at the only thing that ever mattered.
A small glass frame.
Inside it—a faded red ribbon.
Worn.
Fragile.
Still intact.
Every morning, he looked at it.
And every morning, he asked the same question:
Where are you, Maya?
The meeting went perfectly.
Applause.
Handshakes.
Congratulations.
Ethan smiled, said the right things, played his role flawlessly.
But inside?
Nothing.
Afterward, his business partner, Michael Grant, pulled him aside.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
Michael sighed.
“You’ve been saying that for years. Ever since you started buying properties on the south side. Why there?”
Ethan didn’t answer.
Michael studied him.
“It’s because of that girl, isn’t it? The one you’re always talking about.”
Ethan’s jaw tightened.
“Don’t.”