The rain lashed hard against the penthouse windows, grey sheets blurring the glittering skyline. Once, this view had inspired Steven Ross—his domain spread beneath him like a kingdom of lights. Now, it looked like a graveyard of fading promises.
Steven sat alone in the den, the fire crackling low, the scent of scotch clinging to his breath. The tailored navy suit he wore looked rumpled, his tie abandoned, shirt collar open. His once-sharp features had begun to sink—eyes red-rimmed from restless nights, lines deepening at the corners of his mouth. His hand trembled as he reached for the glass again.
His company—Ross International—was crumbling.
Contracts were delayed, some abruptly terminated. Trusted partners pulled out. A scandal involving misappropriated funds—minor, but enough to shake confidence—made headlines for days. The markets began whispering. Board members began to talk.
Steven wasn't a fool. He knew what was happening.
It had started the day Helen walked out.
She had been more than a wife—she was the balance behind his ambition, the one who caught the errors, softened the sharpness in his speeches, and foresaw the consequences of his pride. Without her, his empire had no heart. Without her, the cracks widened, and now everything was falling through.
He leaned forward, burying his face in his hands.
Tears—real, hot, bitter—slipped down his cheeks.
God, Helen… what did I do?
He thought of her laugh in the early days. How she stayed up with him during his first failed pitch, encouraging him with coffee and calm words. How she smiled even when he forgot anniversaries, brushing it off with grace. How she had shielded him from his own recklessness again and again.
And how he threw it all away for a younger woman who now barely returned his calls.
He opened his phone, stared at her name in his contacts for what felt like hours. Then—hands shaking—he typed:
Steven: Helen. I know I'm the last person you want to hear from. But I miss you. God, I miss you. Everything's falling apart here. And I can't stop thinking about how much of me—of this—was because of you. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I should have fought for you, not failed you.
He stared at the blinking cursor, then added:
Steven: You always believed in me. I didn't deserve it. I just… wish I could see you. Talk to you. Just once.
He hit send before he could stop himself.
The message was marked "delivered."
But no reply came.
He stared at the screen until it blurred with tears.
---
Meanwhile, across the city, Helen stood in Élan's design studio—flanked by fabric rolls, mood boards, and a quiet ache in her chest she couldn't name. She had seen the message, read every word, and tucked her phone into her desk drawer without response.
Steven's regret rang hollow now. Still, it stirred old wounds.
What pained her more was the silence growing between her and Sebastian.
Since their confrontation about Berlin and Celeste, things had shifted. Sebastian had become distant—not cold, but watchful, as though bracing for heartbreak. And Helen, torn between logic and fear, found herself overanalyzing every look, every word, wondering if Jennifer's warning had been true.
That doubt clung to her like perfume she couldn't wash off.
And Jennifer wasn't done yet.
She watched from the sidelines, unseen but ever-present, like a phantom wrapped in silk and frost.
Her next move was simple but sharp—an anonymous tip to a local fashion blog. A blurred photo of Sebastian with Celeste Quinn, taken years ago, deliberately paired with a headline:
"Helen Ross's Mystery Man Tied to Fraud Scandal Abroad?"
The story was vague. Unconfirmed. But suggestive enough to spark questions.
Helen saw it two days later—sent anonymously to her inbox.
The photo. The article. The poisoned seed now blooming.
She stared at the screen, her chest tightening.
What if I've made another mistake?
And in that moment of hesitation, Jennifer smiled.
The web was working. And Steven, lost in his regret and ruin, had no idea that his attempt to win Helen back was already sinking her deeper into deception.