Chapter 80
LEVI
As I waited for the driver to arrive with Jenna, my fiancée, I sat in my study, my fingers drumming absently on the mahogany desk. My home office was the only space my father had altered during the grand renovation of his estate. It was modern, sleek, yet eerily foreign to me now—a display of glass, steel, and polished wood, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the vast gardens. A pentagon-shaped shelf stood as the room’s centerpiece, its sharp, geometric edges clashing with the warmth I once associated with this place. Everything felt too pristine, too calculated.
Perhaps that was why I could no longer find the solace I once had here, why my thoughts kept drifting back to the woman I met at Ford’s Bar yesterday.
Why had I gone there in the first place?
I had come to New York with two clear purposes: to introduce Jenna to my father and to stabilize our company’s branch before returning to Italy. Yet something inside me had stirred restlessly, pushing me to leave the comfort of my penthouse that night. It wasn’t just restlessness. It was longing. A sharp, unexplainable ache in my chest, as if something vital was missing, something I was desperate to reclaim.
The night had been cold, the kind that seeped into your bones and made you crave the warmth of whiskey burning down your throat. I had driven aimlessly, city lights blurring past, until I found myself at Ford’s Bar. It wasn’t the kind of place I would usually go—dimly lit, heavy with the scent of stale beer and lost dreams. Not my style. But my legs had taken me there, every bone in my body leading me inside.
Frustration had turned to curiosity the moment she approached my table, recognition flickering in her eyes.
She looked... tired. Not just physically exhausted but weary in a way that spoke of something deeper. Yet even in her fatigue, she was beautiful—not in a superficial way but in the depths of her dark eyes, eyes that held a thousand stories, a thousand sorrows. Something about her was hauntingly familiar, like a ghost from my past, a shadow I couldn’t quite grasp.
The way she looked at me.
Angry. Accusing. As if she knew me. As if I had wronged her. As if I tormented her.
Women recognizing me wasn’t unusual. Being a wealthy man meant dealing with opportunists—those who lingered around my office, high-end malls, waiting for a chance to be seen, to be noticed. Some feigned business interests in Ferrari, playing all sorts of games. After the company became a $50-billion empire and I took over, I had learned to be careful.
But this was different. Her stare wasn’t one of admiration or desire. It was resentment. Pain. As if I had shattered something in her.
But that was impossible.
Wasn’t it?
I should have taken a picture of her, shown it to someone—Tony, my father. Maybe then I would know who she was. Because for a year—an entire year of my life—I remembered nothing. The accident had stolen that from me. My father swore I had spent that time working tirelessly, building the empire I was meant to inherit. But all I had were fragments.
And now, this woman—this stranger—made me feel like I had lost something far greater than just time.
A sharp knock on the glass doors pulled me from my thoughts.
“Come in,” I said, exhaling.
Sir Wilson, the butler, stepped inside. “Sir, Louis has arrived. Your fiancée is here.”
“I’ll be out in a minute.”
He nodded and left. I stood, adjusting my simple yet expensive gray shirt and black trousers before heading outside.
The night air was crisp, the scent of wet earth filling the air as I walked toward the grand estate’s entrance. The sleek black Rolls-Royce purred quietly as it idled, its polished surface reflecting the warm glow of the exterior lights.
Louis stepped out and opened the door. Jenna emerged gracefully.
She was stunning. She always was.
Her long black hair cascaded down her back, sleek and perfect, not a strand out of place. A fitted cashmere coat draped over a dark leather gown that must have cost a fortune, the material clinging to her frame in all the right places. Her oval face was framed by designer glasses, deep red lipstick adorning her full lips. She was elegance personified, the kind of woman who turned heads without effort.
She stepped toward me, pressing a cool kiss to my cheek.
“Welcome, darling,” I murmured. “How was your trip?”
“Exhausting.” She sighed, adjusting her coat.
Louis retrieved her bags from the trunk as she looped her arm through mine, her grip firm, possessive.
“I can’t wait to meet your father,” she said, her voice smooth but expectant.
“He’s going to join us for dinner,” I replied as we walked inside.
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