After their shopping spree and a late dinner, Molly, Ethan, and Carla piled into Ethan's sleek, silent electric SUV for the drive to his home. Carla utilized the journey to efficiently run through pressing work matters with Ethan, her voice low and professional.
Molly, however, was glued to the window, her eyes wide with wonder. Manhattan, eleven years in the future, was a dazzling, dizzying kaleidoscope of light and steel. Familiar landmarks were swallowed by soaring new towers; neighborhoods she thought she knew were transformed beyond recognition. She'd never had a great sense of direction to begin with.
When the car finally glided to a stop, Molly stepped out onto a private driveway in Tribeca. Before her stood a starkly modern glass-and-concrete structure, all sharp angles and minimalist lines. She frowned, turning to Ethan as he retrieved their mountain of shopping bags.
"Did you… completely gut and rebuild the old place?" she asked, confusion lacing her voice. She remembered the rambling Upper East Side townhouse – the ivy-covered brick facade, the wide porch, the riot of her mother's prized roses in the front garden. This monolithic structure felt cold, impersonal.
Ethan's expression tightened almost imperceptibly. "No. This is new. I bought it a few years ago."
*Right,* Molly thought, *Billionaire CEO. Penthouse views and private elevators.* "So… what happened to the townhouse? Did Alex move in?" She referred to their third brother, the pop star.
"No." Ethan's voice was clipped. He shifted the bags in his arms. "It… had to be sold." He quickly changed the subject, pushing open the imposing front door. "I'll call Alex later. Tell him you're back."
The interior was exactly as Molly expected: Ethan's signature minimalist-chic. Expensive, sparse, and about as welcoming as an art gallery after hours. Vast expanses of polished concrete floor, low-slung furniture in shades of grey and beige, and dramatic abstract art on the walls. The air hummed with the quiet efficiency of integrated climate control.
"Is Alex even in New York?" Molly asked, dumping her bags unceremoniously on a pristine white sofa that probably cost more than her old car.
"No," Ethan replied, carefully placing his own burdens down. "He's mid-European tour leg. Wembley Stadium tomorrow night."
Molly winced. Alex was notoriously… passionate. "Don't tell him yet! Knowing him, he'd cancel the damn concert and charter a jet back here tonight!" The last thing his already polarizing career needed was a scandalous no-show. "Wait until he's back."
Ethan nodded. He remembered the fierce competition for Molly's attention among the brothers when they were kids. Alex, the charming extrovert, had usually won. A small, selfish part of Ethan relished having Molly all to himself for now. "Understood."
Carla, sensing the shift in conversation back to potentially sensitive territory, smoothly tapped her watch. "Mr. Shaw, that conference call reminder for Tokyo… I'll step outside to prep the notes." She didn't wait for confirmation, slipping out onto the terrace.
Molly flopped back onto the sofa, her gaze fixed on Ethan. "So. The townhouse. Why was it sold?" The fragmented dream hadn't filled in these details.
Ethan sank into an armchair opposite her, his fingers automatically finding the obsidian stones at his wrist. He rolled them slowly, the smooth surfaces clicking softly in the vast quiet. "After you… after the accident," he began, his voice low and rough, "Uncle Robert swooped in. Leveraged some shady board connections, forced his way into control of Shaw Holdings." His knuckles whitened. "He ran it into the ground. By the time he crawled back, begging me to 'save the family legacy,' the company was hemorrhaging cash, drowning in debt." He met Molly's gaze, the guilt raw in his eyes. "I had to liquidate everything non-core to keep it afloat. The townhouse… was part of that. I'm sorry, Molly. I couldn't… I didn't protect our home." The memory was a physical ache. Their parents gone, then Molly… and he'd failed to hold onto the one tangible link to their shared past.
Molly remembered Uncle Robert vividly. The vultures circling after their parents' plane crash. Her, fourteen years old, barricading the doors, wielding a baseball bat (metaphorically and once, memorably, a strategically messy diaper courtesy of their toddler brother). She'd faced down boardrooms of skeptical, middle-aged men and somehow convinced them to back *her* chosen interim CEO. She'd held the crumbling pieces together with sheer force of will.
Ethan's shoulders slumped under the weight of perceived failure. "You held everything together. After Mom and Dad… and then I…"
Molly's expression softened. She leaned forward and gave his knee a firm, reassuring pat. "Hey. Stop that. You did *amazing*." She gestured around the cavernous, expensive space. "Look at this place! It's huge! And Shaw Enterprises? You built an empire from ashes Ethan. That's incredible." For her, eleven years was a blink. For him, it had been a relentless, brutal climb.
Feeling the familiar warmth of her touch, seeing the unwavering confidence in her eyes – the same look she'd given him when facing down bullies or board members – Ethan ducked his head. A single, hot tear escaped, splashing silently onto the buttery leather of the armchair. He brushed it away swiftly with his thumb. "You should get some rest," he mumbled, standing abruptly. "If you need anything, text Carla. Or me." He pulled a sleek black titanium card from his wallet and pressed it into her hand. "Get whatever you want. Tomorrow, Carla will take you to get your ID sorted. My lawyer will handle the documentation."
Molly's eyes lit up. "Cha-ching!" This billionaire brother perk was definitely a win. Money opened doors. Her fragmented dream had shown their youngest brother, Leo, lost in childhood, now a troubled teen heading down a dangerous path – tangled up with Cole Sterling's younger brother. Details were fuzzy, but finding Leo was priority number one. Ethan's guilt was palpable; she saw the shadows in his eyes when he thought she wasn't looking. She stood and impulsively ruffled his hair. It felt stiff, unnatural beneath her fingers.
Ethan flinched slightly, a flush creeping up his neck. *The damn styling gel for Liana…*
Molly pretended not to notice, tucking her hand behind her back. "Listen, kiddo," she said, her tone firm but kind. "Stop beating yourself up about Leo. On the ride over, I was looking up old stuff… saw the reports about him going missing. That wasn't your fault." She met his gaze, radiating the same fierce certainty that had once held their crumbling world together. "Your big sister is back. We *will* find him. Got it? Tummy settled?" She patted her own stomach for emphasis.
Ethan stared at her. The phrase, so ridiculously childish yet utterly *Molly*, unlocked something deep inside. Just like when she'd declared, aged fourteen, "Nobody messes with the Shaws while I'm around!" A flicker of the old, impossible hope ignited in his chest, momentarily pushing back the gloom. He managed a small, genuine smile. "Got it."
---
Armed with impossibly soft cashmere pajamas (price tag discreetly removed, but Molly knew luxury) and the essential undergarments Carla had thoughtfully procured, Molly retreated to the pristine, marble-clad ensuite bathroom. *Eleven years… technically.* She felt grimy.
Carla, who had been discreetly observing from the terrace, re-entered the living area as Ethan headed towards the bedrooms. The name 'Molly Lin' had finally clicked, unlocking a long-buried memory.
Back in 2014, Carla had been a fiercely ambitious fourteen-year-old, already mapping her path to an Ivy League feeder school like Dalton. She'd voraciously consumed news about top students. That year, the buzz was all about Molly Lin. Valedictorian at the prestigious Dalton Academy. Full ride to Harvard. Not just smart – stunning. The kind of girl featured in 'Teen Vogue' spreads about 'Brains & Beauty.' Rumor had it she'd turned down an early Harvard acceptance to compete fairly for the valedictorian spot against her arch-rival, Cole Sterling. That act alone had made her legendary.
Dalton hadn't been about prom queens and football stars. It was about ruthless academic competition. The epic Lin vs. Sterling rivalry was spectator sport. Students (and allegedly, a few teachers) placed bets on every major exam – who would top the class? Their encounters in the halls were described as intellectual jousting matches, devoid of romance, crackling with pure, competitive fire.
The final showdown – Senior Finals – had been intense. Bets reached absurd levels. Molly Lin won by a single, glorious point. Cole Sterling, predictably, was salutatorian, also Harvard-bound. The city buzzed, anticipating their rivalry to ignite Cambridge.
Then, that summer, the unthinkable. News broke: Molly Lin's car had plunged through the guardrails on the George Washington Bridge into the churning Hudson River. A massive search ensued for a month. Only the mangled wreck was recovered. The NYPD, citing the treacherous currents, declared her deceased. Harvard issued a somber statement mourning the loss of a brilliant mind. Carla remembered the profound sense of loss, the feeling of a bright star extinguished too soon. The day the death certificate was finalized, the bridge had been lined with mourners and flowers.
And now… here she was. Unchanged. Appearing out of nowhere with nothing but the clothes (and memories?) of an eighteen-year-old. The questions swirled in Carla's mind like a storm. But her professionalism was ironclad. This wasn't her story to probe. She was simply… profoundly glad.
"Mr. Shaw," Carla said, approaching Ethan who was pulling crisp linens from a hall closet. "I can make up the guest room for Molly."
Ethan shook his head, a hint of… pride? … in his eyes. "No need. I've got it. I'm an expert bed-maker." He held up a perfectly folded fitted sheet with surprising dexterity. "Made Molly's bed every weekend back home. Had a system."
Carla couldn't help a small smile. "Impressive skill set, sir."
The penthouse had multiple guest suites, but Ethan directed her to the expansive master bedroom – floor-to-ceiling windows offering breathtaking, dizzying views of the glittering city. He meticulously dressed the massive bed in the highest thread count Egyptian cotton. Molly, showered and enveloped in luxurious cashmere, claimed it without ceremony. Ethan retreated to a smaller, though still opulent, guest room.
Molly snuggled into the cloud-like bed, firing up her new phone. She spent hours diving down internet rabbit holes, catching up on a decade of technological leaps, social media explosions (TikTok was *wild*), and global shifts. Her brain buzzed with information overload.
Eventually, curiosity led her to social media. Trending: **#WallStreetRecluseMysteryGirl**. Paparazzi shots of her, Ethan, and Carla laden with bags flooded her feed. She smirked. Ethan probably lived blissfully unaware of the tabloid circus, relying on his PR team to shield him.
Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. She opened a messaging app – currently logged into one of Ethan's spare accounts since she lacked ID for her own. She tapped out a quick text to Carla.
> **[Unknown Number (Ethan's Spare)]: Hey Carla, it's Molly. Saw the pics online. Fun times! 😉 Don't suppose there's an easy way to make those disappear? Or at least keep my face blurry? Thx!**
Midnight came and went. 1 AM. 2 AM. The penthouse was silent except for the faint hum of the city far below. Molly tossed. She turned. She tried every side of the massive bed. She even tried the impossibly plush rug. Nothing. Wide awake, eyes staring at the subtly lit ceiling, she groaned internally. *Jet lag? Time-travel lag? Or just… this isn't home.*
Sleep had always been a fickle friend. Back in high school, only the familiar comfort of her own room in the old townhouse could reliably coax it. Hence the daily commute, even with demanding classes and fierce rivalry. This sterile, albeit luxurious, space felt alien.
Giving up at 4 AM, she padded silently into the kitchen for water. As she filled a glass, a muffled vibration, followed by Ethan's sleep-roughened voice, drifted from his room.
"Yeah? Thorne? What is it?"
Molly froze, glass halfway to her lips. *Thorne?* Who called a billionaire CEO at 4 AM? And why did Ethan sound… not entirely surprised? Curiosity, sharper than her insomnia, pricked at her.