The sun rose over Los Angeles, indifferent.
Julian Wolfe hadn't slept.
His phone sat untouched beside him on the marble kitchen counter, its screen dark, silent — no messages, no missed calls, no updates from the woman who had made his carefully curated life feel like a lie he didn't want anymore.
Selena was gone.
Not metaphorically — literally.
No texts.
No posts.
No trace.
Even Maya didn't know where she was and that was the part that scared him most.
It had been 48 hours since he'd handed Selena the statement, since he'd stood on that rooftop and told her he chose her.
And somehow… she still left.
Julian searched the city.
First, her apartment. Empty.
Then her studio — lights off, front gate locked, a sticky note on the inside window: Closed for creative reset.
He tried her favorite café, the one with the lavender lattes and the corner booth where she sketched product labels.
Nothing.
He sent messages. No reply.
He called Maya. Straight to voicemail.
By the second night, he was back on the rooftop where it had all started — the rooftop that once held their performance, then their first kiss and later his biggest truth.
Now it held only him.
He sat on the cold ledge, elbows on his knees, hands tangled in his hair.
His mind played it all back — frame by frame. Every moment. Every word.
Selena's voice when she asked, "Then why did you let her speak for you?"
The way her expression shattered when he didn't answer fast enough.
He had sworn he was ready.
Sworn he'd chosen her.
But the truth gnawed at him now like rust under gold.
He hadn't really let go, not of control, not of the script, not of the version of himself that played the long game and kept emotion in a cage with a key he never gave away.
He had chosen her in public.
But had he chosen her in private?
Had he loved her honestly — or only as far as it didn't break his rules?
The answer sat heavy in his chest.
A knock came at his penthouse door just past midnight.
He almost didn't answer it.
But something — instinct, maybe — pulled him to his feet.
He opened the door.
Maya stood there.
She looked tired. Her hair was tied back, makeup smudged from what looked like hours of pacing and worry. She held her phone in one hand, a folded scarf in the other — the one Selena always wore when she flew.
"She's in Lagos," Maya said softly.
Julian's entire body stilled.
His voice was a whisper. "What?"
"She left yesterday," Maya continued. "Didn't tell anyone. Just packed a bag and got on a plane. Her mother called me a few hours ago said Selena needed space, said she needed to remember who she was before you ever walked in."
Julian stepped back like the words were bullets.
Gone.
Home.
Selena had gone all the way back to the beginning — not just to leave the city but to leave him.
And suddenly, everything he'd built — the empire, the statements, the image — felt like sand beneath his feet.
He didn't speak again.
Didn't sit down.
He walked straight to his bedroom, opened the safe, pulled out his passport.
His hands were shaking.
Maya followed, leaning against the doorway.
"You're going after her?" she asked.
He didn't hesitate.
"Yes."
Maya studied him. "Then go as Julian not Wolfe. Don't bring the empire, don't bring the ego."
He zipped his bag.
"I won't," he said.
At LAX, under the fluorescent airport lights, Julian didn't wear a suit.
He wore jeans.
A black T-shirt.
No watch.
No name badge.
Just himself.
And for the first time in his life… he didn't have a plan.
Only hope.
And a woman on the other side of the world who had walked away not because she didn't love him — but because she needed to remember who she was before he ever tried to define her.