The Ford family estate in Grosse Pointe shimmered like a crown under the early morning sun. Behind high hedges and steel gates, the home stood, part architectural marvel, part family legacy. The building's design, sleek yet rooted in tradition, overlooked Lake St. Clair with a calm arrogance that matched its owners. Inside, breakfast was served with ceremony, not affection.
Alex stood at the far end of the long glass table. His siblings were absent, as usual. His father, William Clay Ford Jr., sat at the head, reading The Wall Street Journal, while a housekeeper quietly replenished the grapefruit segments on his plate. The silence was elegant and controlled.
"You left early last night," William said without looking up.
"I had things to do," Alex replied.
"You've had things to do for five years."
Alex didn't respond. He sipped his coffee instead, bitter and grounding.
William finally looked at him. "You should come to the foundation gala. Sheila will be there. So will half the board."
Alex raised a brow. "That's the point. Isn't it?"
"You've been invisible long enough."
Alex rose from the table, pushing his chair back carefully. "I'm not ready to be seen."
William didn't stop him. He rarely did.
*******************
Across town, Serena adjusted the collar of her camel coat and walked briskly into the Ford PR building, her heels clicking across polished marble. A fresh bouquet of blue hydrangeas had been placed in the lobby, Ford's color. Her assistant, Maya, was already waiting with coffee and a folder in hand.
"You have the community youth summit pre-brief in twenty," Maya said.
"Remind me, who's chairing the foundation panel?"
"Technically, you. But Miranda will be seated beside you."
Serena blinked. "Of course she will."
"And Damien RSVP'd."
Serena stopped in the middle of the hallway.
"Wait. Why?"
"He says he's representing one of the foundation's major donors. Something about new stadium renovations at Ford Field."
Serena swore under her breath. "Great. Let the chess game begin."
*******************
The conference room on the 19th floor had been rearranged for media prep, screens, printouts, coffee stations. Serena stood at the head of the table, briefing the room while trying to suppress the tightness in her chest. Damien had arrived, late as always, with a smirk and a designer coat that probably cost more than the city's annual youth fund.
She pretended not to see him. He, of course, made a show of seeing only her.
As she walked the team through the campaign pillars, education, mentorship, equity. She felt his stare like heat against her back.
Afterward, as the room emptied, he approached.
"Still pretending I don't exist?"
"Only when it helps me work better."
He grinned. "Don't worry. I'm not here to seduce you today."
"I'll alert the press," she said dryly.
But he stepped closer, voice lowering. "You're glowing again. I assume that means you've seen him."
She didn't answer.
Damien tilted his head. "Be careful, Serena. Some men build empires with lies. And some tear them down the same way."
*******************
That evening, at the Ford family's secondary estate. A sleek, modern property reserved for events and international guests. Miranda met privately with a donor from Chicago. The walls were adorned with rare paintings and photos of the Ford legacy. Henry, Edsel, William, all frozen in polished frames.
The donor laughed over a drink. "So Serena's next, eh? Following in your footsteps?"
Miranda's smile was flawless. "She's a natural. Grace under fire. And she'll make a fine wife to a political figure."
"She knows?"
"Not yet."
The donor leaned forward. "And the mechanic?"
"Handled," Miranda said coolly. "For now."
*******************
Alex pulled into the parking lot behind the Ford restoration garage just past midnight. The lights were off, but he'd been there enough times to find his way around in the dark. Inside, the air smelled like oil and quiet ambition.
He moved past the restored models, a Mach 1, a Galaxie 500, and found himself standing before the 1967 Mustang GT he'd been quietly rebuilding for weeks. He traced his fingers along the hood, lost in memory.
His phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: Tick tock. Truth doesn't wait forever.
Alex didn't reply. But this time, he didn't delete the message either.
He exhaled slowly and tossed his keys onto the workbench. Then, as if summoned by something older than thought, he walked to the garage's side door, opened it, and leaned against the frame, letting the cool night air settle over him.
Moments later, headlights lit the lot. A familiar car pulled in, Serena's.
She climbed out slowly, arms crossed, tension sharp in the way she held her jaw.
"I figured you'd be here," she said.
Alex didn't speak. He just nodded once.
She walked past him, fingertips grazing the hood of the Mustang.
"Have you fixed this?"
"Almost. Still needs time."
"Like you," she said softly.
He looked at her sternly.
"I never meant to mislead you, Serena. But sometimes it's easier to keep things simple."
She turned to face him. "Simple? You're one of the most complicated people I've ever met."
He gave a half smile. "Maybe that's why I'm here. Where things don't need to be explained."
Her eyes searched his face, but her expression gave nothing away.
"So what now?" she asked.
Alex hesitated. Then he stepped closer, close enough that she could smell the engine grease on his jacket, the faint woody citrus on his skin.
"I don't know," he admitted.
She let out a breath and looked away. "I hate how you make me feel. Like I can't trust what I want."
He nodded. "I hate that I have to hide who I am just to keep you."
They stood in silence, the Mustang between them.
Finally, she shook her head. "We can't do this, Alex."
"I know."
She started to turn, but then he spoke again, voice barely above a whisper.
"But I'll wait anyway."
And she left in her car, again.
******************
Back at the Vale residence, Miranda stood by the fireplace, staring at a framed photo of Serena's late father, Simon Vale. The fire flickered low.
"I hope you're watching," she said softly. "Because our daughter is slipping. And I can't lose her to someone who doesn't even have the courage to speak his name like Calhoun."
She poured herself a drink and opened her phone.
Contact: Unknown Message Sent: Tick tock. Truth doesn't wait forever.
She closed the phone.
Smiled.
And turned back toward the fire.