Chapter 3

Ethan Blackwood's POV

The headache was the first sensation to return.

Not the dull throb of a hangover, but the tearing feeling unique to a drug wearing off—spreading from between my brows deep into my skull, like a chisel precisely peeling away each layer of consciousness.

I opened my eyes. The ceiling was an unfamiliar off-white.

Right.

I sat up, my gaze instinctively sweeping to the right side of the bed.

Empty.

The sheets showed faint traces of having been gently disturbed, a shallow impression on the pillow, any warmth long gone. She'd been gone for a while.

She left cleanly, without leaving even a sound.

I stared silently at that empty space for a few seconds, then lowered my gaze to the dried dark red spot on the sheet.

I didn't look away immediately.

Morning light from the Hudson River made that color unnaturally clear through the window. I remained silent in that clarity for a long time, my mind processing two things simultaneously: First, someone had drugged me last night. Second, that woman—she'd been drugged too.

The former kept my fury like an unsheathed blade, cold and pressed against my brow. The latter prevented me from categorizing this as an ordinary conspiracy.

I closed my eyes, trying to salvage her outline from fragmented memories.

The images were broken, but certain details were unnaturally vivid—she carried an extremely faint scent, not perfume, closer to something natural, botanical, clean, with a hint of coldness. When my fingers touched the side of her neck, they'd bumped against something hard: a gemstone pendant, sharp-edged, ice-cold like a stone pulled from deep water.

And her struggle.

That force was light as a silent protest, yet never gave up.

She wasn't willing.

This thought made my stomach clench sharply, that tightening mixed with an emotion I wasn't accustomed to—not guilt, hotter than guilt, and harder to process.

I threw on a bathrobe, stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, and dialed Lucas.

"Find out who the woman was that entered my suite last night."

Lucas went silent for two seconds on the other end, then shifted into work mode.

The report came quickly, but the conclusion was unsatisfactory.

There was a blind spot in the surveillance angle outside my room. The woman's face hadn't been fully captured, only a silhouette—slender figure, evening gown, barefoot, carrying heels in one hand.

Barefoot.

My expression darkened slightly.

"Pull all footage of everyone entering and leaving the 28th floor during that time," I said evenly. "I want complete information on this woman."

Lucas paused, then spoke in an extremely measured tone, "Ethan, do we need to initiate PR protocols simultaneously? If this matter—"

"No need."

I hung up and continued standing by the window, my gaze settling on the leaden gray waters of the distant Hudson.

The drugging was a conspiracy targeting me—no question about that. But that woman—when she'd hidden in my room, she already showed signs of the drug taking effect: erratic breathing, elevated temperature, yet her struggling strength felt more genuine than anyone with premeditated intent.

Either way, I had to find her.

Lucas's second call came twenty minutes later.

"There was a charity gala on the 28th floor last night, hosted by the Sterling family," his voice remained steady. "Their daughter's birthday party, held in the hotel ballroom."

The family name turned once in my mind without triggering any direct memory. Fringe players in the real estate circle, hardly important.

"Go to Sterling Estate," I said. "Find out the complete list of female attendees at that party, especially those who left midway."

"Understood."

I set down the phone and looked out the window again.

Lucas's final call came faster than I expected.

He'd finished his investigation at the Sterling Estate entrance, his phrasing as concise as always. Information about last night's party attendees, about the names of those who left midway.

Then he paused and added, "One detail. Vivian Sterling—just now at the entrance, I noticed she was holding a sapphire necklace. Fine gold chain, the pendant has complex facets, the setting technique looks vintage."

My fingers tightened slightly.

Sapphire. Sharp-edged. Ice-cold.

That was the one.

"Vivian Sterling." I pressed the name down in my mind, confirming its weight, then said, "Keep digging. I want all her information."

Hanging up, I stood by the window, the puzzle piece in my mind quietly shifting into place—

But something didn't fit.

Six years later, airport lounge.

I stood leaning against a corridor pillar, wearing a charcoal gray suit, tie impeccably knotted. JFK's VIP lounge had sparse foot traffic; occasional passersby instinctively detoured around me—I knew it wasn't because I was blocking the way, but because something about me made people feel they shouldn't approach.

This had become a habit. Or rather, a defensive posture I no longer even noticed.

"Ethan, can you change that expression on your face?"

My grandfather, Harrison Blackwood, sat in a lounge chair watching me, his old New York accent dripping with disdain. "Looking like that, no wonder at your age you still don't have a child!"

I didn't respond. I'd handled this type of conversation too many times, having long developed a complete silent response mechanism.

Grandfather had no intention of stopping. He pulled the topic back to Vivian.

"Six years!" He turned to look at me, his gaze carrying that unique sharpness of the elderly. "Vivian's been with you six years and still hasn't gotten pregnant." He paused, his tone suddenly meaningful. "Is there something wrong with you? I know the best hospital in Switzerland, and since we're going there anyway—"

I turned to look at him.

He swallowed the rest of his words. But that look clearly said, 'I'm just stating a possibility.'

I retrieved an elegant small gift box from my carry-on bag and pushed it toward grandfather.

"Sugar-free oatmeal cookies Vivian made," I said. "According to your nutritional plan."

Grandfather suspiciously opened the box and picked up a cookie, taking half a bite.

Then he very elegantly spat that half-bite back into the box.

"Vivian made this?" He pushed the box away, pushed it far, as if it contained something hazardous. "Last family dinner, she was serving soup and spilled an entire bowl of hot soup on my pants. You know what she said?" He snorted coldly. "She said I was senile and my shaky hands knocked it over. In front of the whole room."

I said nothing.

"Replace her, Ethan. Do it quickly." Grandfather's tone shifted from complaint to some kind of ironclad family verdict. "Find someone proper, someone who can have children. Look at the Harringtons' James next door—his great-grandson can already run out and buy things himself. Saw me the day before yesterday, threw his arms around my neck calling me great-grandfather—" A rare trace of envy surfaced in his expression. "I'm not a great-grandfather yet. How can I go to Switzerland for treatment with peace of mind?"

The air in the lounge suddenly felt a bit too heavy.

Just then, a thin, tearful cry suddenly pierced through the lounge noise—

"Mom! Mom! Wait for me!"

I instinctively looked toward the sound.

A little boy in blue overalls was stumbling in this direction, holding up a superhero toy, his foot catching on something, lurching sharply forward—

He fell two steps from grandfather, knees hitting the ground, the toy flying from his hands and rolling to my feet.

Grandfather's reaction was surprisingly agile. He stood from his chair, bent down and scooped the child into his arms, palm gently patting his back, "Oh my, careful now! Where did you hurt yourself? Let grandpa see—"

The boy, suddenly scooped up, froze for a second, tears still clinging to his lashes, eyes wide and bright, staring at grandfather.

I bent down to pick up the superhero toy from the carpet, planning to return it once we found the child's guardian.

Just then, grandfather's voice suddenly changed.

The change was subtle—from the gentleness of coaxing a child, quietly transforming into a kind of "shock" I'd never heard in his voice before.

"Ethan." He called me, voice very low. "Come here. Come look—"

He studied that round little face in his arms, his voice growing lower and more certain, "This child... this nose bridge, this curve of the mouth, compared to your childhood photos... like he was carved from the same mold."

I raised my eyes, looking at that face with its still-red eye sockets in his arms.

The lounge noise suddenly seemed muted by some invisible button.

Those eyes—deep brown, bright and clear—gazed back at me without any guard.

My heart skipped half a beat.