The glass clinked gently as Ethan Wolfe set down his tumbler of scotch, untouched. Manhattan's skyline stretched out before him, lights flickering like the city was whispering secrets he couldn't quite grasp. But his mind wasn't on mergers or board meetings.
It was on her.
Talia.
That night had been a blur, but her laughter still echoed in his mind. Her smile, disarming. Her touch, unforgettable.
And then… she was gone.
He'd told himself it didn't matter. That she was just another mistake. One of many blurry nights during those rare times he let himself loosen the reins. But that was a lie he couldn't keep swallowing.
"Still nothing?" Ethan asked without turning, knowing Marcus, his head of security, stood behind him.
"No, sir," Marcus replied. "The investigator tracked down the hotel she stayed in. Paid in cash, no ID. The club cameras show her leaving alone."
Ethan's jaw clenched. "What about the name?"
"She gave Ethan… only your first name, apparently."
Of course she did. No number. No address. Just "Ethan."
He stared out at the city again, one hand dragging through his hair. *Why did it matter so damn much?*
He barely knew her, yet the silence she left behind was louder than anything he'd experienced in years.
"She looked at me like I wasn't a billionaire," Ethan muttered. "Like I was just… someone."
Marcus cleared his throat. "Should I call off the search?"
Ethan didn't hesitate. "No. I want to find her."
He didn't understand it, this pull to a woman whose full name he didn't even know. But something in his chest wouldn't let go. Not until he saw her again.
Not until he knew.
Not until he was sure that night hadn't changed only him.
---
"Her name is Talia," Ethan said, sliding the napkin with her name across the smooth oak desk in Elijah's office. His fingers trembled, though he masked it with his usual cold composure.
Elijah raised an eyebrow. "No last name?"
"I don't know it," Ethan muttered, frustrated at himself more than anything else. "All I have is her first name, and what she looks like. That night... I left before she woke up."
Elijah leaned back, his expression unreadable, then pressed a button on his phone. "Call Damon."
Ethan knew that name well, Elijah's go-to private investigator. Discreet. Fast. Ruthless, if needed.
"I don't care how much it costs," Ethan said before the line even connected. "Find her."
***
Damon's office smelled like expensive cigars and ink. The kind of room that made people nervous even when they had nothing to hide.
Ethan stared at the wall of monitors, photos, and maps. One grainy screenshot from hotel security footage played in a loop: Talia walking out into the dawn in an oversized hoodie and messy hair, looking over her shoulder once before disappearing into the morning crowd.
"She didn't use her ID at the hotel. Paid in cash," Damon explained, tapping a screen. "No name. No credit card trail. But… she walked toward the metro line. I've got someone pulling footage from nearby cameras."
Ethan clenched his jaw. "She's not running from me. She didn't even know who I was."
"You sure about that?"
"She called me Ethan. Just Ethan. If she knew who I was, she'd have sold the story by now." His voice darkened. "She didn't."
Damon looked at him like he wasn't so sure, but didn't argue.
***
Days passed. Then a week.
Ethan pretended to be fine at work. He answered board questions, approved deals, sat in interviews. But his mind was elsewhere. On her laugh. On how she'd traced patterns on his chest while they lay tangled under hotel sheets. On how no woman had ever made him forget time the way she did.
He hated that he remembered everything. Hated that he couldn't forget her, no matter how hard he tried.
Until one evening, he got a call.
"We might have something," Damon said.
Ethan stood so fast his chair crashed to the floor.
"Go on."
"She used the name Talia James to register for a local pop-up design event three weeks ago. It's part of a small fashion collective. No address yet, but we're closing in."
Ethan's pulse pounded.
He was getting closer.
---
Ethan sat behind the thick glass of his office, the city lights casting a pale glow over his sharp features. The dossier Damon handed him was thick, stuffed with photos, event flyers, and scanned receipts.
*Talia James. Registered as a designer at a pop-up fashion event in the arts district.*
A small smile tugged at Ethan's lips. Of all the things she could've done, she'd stuck to her passion. She hadn't disappeared to hide, she was building a life, a real life.
He pulled up the event's website, studying her name next to a collection of dresses she'd submitted. Bold, unconventional cuts. There was an unmistakable spark of raw talent.
He could picture Talia now, at that event, probably pitching her ideas to people who didn't care. She had no clue a billionaire CEO was watching her every move. No idea that behind those sleek boardrooms and endless power plays, Ethan Wolfe was fixated on her.
"Damon," Ethan said into the phone, "get me everything on this event. Who attended, who sponsored it, any contacts."
The truth was, Ethan wasn't just interested in her work, he wanted to find her. To see if she was safe. To see if she was his.
Meanwhile, miles away, Talia wiped sweat from her brow in a tiny studio, surrounded by bolts of fabric and half-finished sketches. The pop-up gig was exhausting but exhilarating. Mia was beside her, playfully teasing her about the design she called her 'breakthrough.'
"We're gonna blow this thing up, girl," Mia said, snapping a picture of Talia's latest dress.
Talia laughed, unaware that someone was silently pulling the strings to find her, watching her from the shadows of the city skyline.
---
Ethan's fingers drummed impatiently on the mahogany desk as Damon laid out the latest report.
"Security footage from the event's entrance," Damon said, sliding a tablet across the desk. "We got a clear shot of Talia entering and leaving."
Ethan's eyes narrowed. "Good. Any sign of anyone following her? Any suspicious contacts?"
"Nothing yet," Damon replied. "But the event's small. It's mostly local artists and buyers."
Ethan tapped his chin thoughtfully. Local. That meant Talia hadn't run far. She was close. Too close to let her slip away again.
Meanwhile, Talia's phone buzzed. A text from Mia: "You're killing it! But don't forget, you promised me a break tonight. Drinks on me!"
Talia smiled and typed back: "Deal. Need to celebrate surviving the chaos."
Back in the penthouse, Ethan's gaze lingered on her photos. He was growing more determined. She didn't know it yet, but he was coming closer.
---
Talia collapsed onto her tiny couch, wiping sweat from her brow. "I swear, if I see one more fabric sample today, I might start talking to them."
Mia, sprawled on the floor with a half-eaten cookie, grinned. "Girl, your designs are gonna be so fire they'll be begging for samples, not the other way around."
Talia groaned. "Right now, I'm begging for a nap. And maybe a personal assistant who doubles as a chef and therapist."
Mia snorted. "I volunteer as tribute. But only if you promise to stop calling yourself a 'starving artist.' You've been eating cereal for three days straight."
They both burst out laughing, the kind that shakes your whole body and makes your belly hurt.
Talia smirked. "Thanks for keeping me sane, Mia. Without you, I'd probably be talking to those fabric swatches for real."
Mia raised her cookie. "To friendship and fashion, and surviving pregnancy brain without losing our minds."
They clinked invisible glasses and laughed again, ready for whatever chaos came next.