Bernard Bradshawe's POV
The skyline of the city stretched endlessly below, wrapped in the silver haze of morning beyond the glass walls of my office — a cold, shimmering display of wealth that meant nothing when your gut told you something was off.
From the top floor of Westmere Global Enterprises, the world looked deceptively calm. Numbers, profits, power—everything was measurable here. Everything, except the things that kept me awake at night.
I leaned back in my chair, rubbing the bridge of my nose as the city buzzed far below. Here we go again. Another morning, another disaster waiting to happen.
The door opened with a soft click. Julian Marrick strode in—sleeves rolled up, tie nowhere to be seen, hair tousled like he'd wrestled with a hurricane and lost. My right hand, my bodyguard, and my only real confidant.
He tossed a folder onto my desk. "Westmere Global's shares dipped again this morning. Nothing catastrophic, but if this trend continues, someone's pulling strings behind the scenes."
I flipped open the file, eyes scanning the reports. "Who's buying in bulk?"
"Still tracing that," he said, settling into the chair opposite me. "But I've got a hunch it's tied to Davenport Holdings. They've been sniffing around your name again."
I let out a quiet sigh. "Of course they have."
Silence lingered for a moment. Then Julian cleared his throat. "Also… the press is still swarming over that model's death. Sally Whitmore. You know her?"
I looked up sharply. "I've heard the name. She was in one of our charity campaigns, wasn't she?"
Julian nodded. "Right. Police are calling it an accidental overdose, but… there's something off about it."
He opened the file again, flipping through printed articles. "The media's going insane with it. Social feeds are flooded. Every gossip outlet's running her face on the front page. Hashtags, tributes, conspiracy theories—you name it. She was at the peak of her career, boss. A string of endorsements, her latest movie hitting record views, and that perfume line launch last month? Sold out in hours."
I leaned forward slightly. "So the public's treating it like a tragedy?"
"Like a royal funeral," Julian said grimly. "Everyone wants to know who she was with that night, what she took, and who's to blame. But the official statement's too clean—no witnesses, no security footage, just… gone."
I tapped my fingers against the desk s my brain immediately switched on and started thinking. "How much do you know about her?"
He hesitated, then replied, "Sally Whitmore, twenty-six. Started as a local model before climbing the entertainment ladder fast. Too fast, maybe. Had connections in high places—sponsors, producers, and someone rumored to be her 'benefactor.' But she kept her private life sealed tight. No scandals, no public boyfriends, nothing messy."
I frowned, staring past him at the skyline. "And yet she ends up dead, overdosed."
Julian gave a short, humorless laugh. "Yeah. Convenient, isn't it?"
I tapped my fingers against the desk, that uneasy feeling in my gut deepening. "Do we have any ties to her?"
His hesitation told me the answer before he spoke. "Not directly," he said carefully. "But… the press is linking her to us. Sally was the face of Westmere Global's latest campaign—the luxury brand division. Her contract went public last month, and now that she's dead, people are saying the company's image is tainted. Hashtags, accusations, rumors—some are calling it a cover-up."
My jaw tightened. "A cover-up?"
Julian nodded grimly. "They're claiming her death has something to do with our company. That someone wanted her silenced before she leaked something big. Investors are getting nervous. If this keeps up, our shares will keep dropping."
I leaned back slowly, a cold weight settling in my chest. "So now the world thinks we killed our own brand ambassador."
My gut twisted—not from guilt, but from something deeper. Because something about her name, about that night I couldn't remember, pressed at the edge of my mind like a splinter I couldn't pull out.
Julian hesitated, his gaze flicking briefly to the floor before meeting mine again. "I'm afraid that's the case," he said quietly. "She was last seen at the Westmere gala—the one you personally sponsored. And…" He paused, the tension immediately cranked up. "It happened the same weekend you disappeared for twenty-four hours."
My jaw tightened. "That was a private matter."
Julian gave me that look—the one that said he didn't believe in coincidences. "Still worth remembering, boss. Sometimes what's 'private' gets weaponized."
He stood to leave, gathering his papers, but I wasn't done. The thought had already begun clawing at the back of my mind.
"Julian."
He paused at the door.
I stared down at the gleaming surface of my desk, at my own reflection staring back—tired, guarded, and haunted. "That weekend… that event at the Armitage Hotel."
His brow furrowed slightly. "That private matter?"
"Yeah."
"The one where you woke up in that suite with no memory of how you got there?"
I nodded slowly. "I'm sure I was drugged. I never drink that much. I remember flashes—a glass handed to me, a woman's perfume, and then nothing until morning. Someone wanted me compromised."
Julian's voice dropped. "You think it ties to Sally Whitmore?"
"Maybe. Maybe not." I met his gaze. "But find out what happened that night. And find out who she was. The girl I slept with. She had gone when I woke up. The police never investigated. Neither did I."
Julian's eyes narrowed slightly. "Why now?"
Because the memory wasn't just gone—it was gone extracted. And the man who could do such a thing… he wasn't someone I could let wander free.
"Because," I said, my voice low and dangerous, "whoever did that to me might have something to do with her death."
Julian's expression hardened. "Understood. I'll dig discreetly."
"I need you to pull the guest list for me. The full one, not just the VIPs. Everyone who was there that night."
He studied me for a moment, then nodded slowly. "You think the girl was there?"
"I believe she was. I need you to find the rest of the attendees, especially any connections with Sally. And Julian…" I hesitated, the words catching in my throat. "And while you're at it… find out who else was staying at the hotel that night. Any… unusual bookings. Anything that stands out."
Julian's expression hardened. "You're not just fishing for company damage control, are you?"
I shook my head. "No. This feels… personal."
He inclined his head, and his dark eyes showed he completely understood. "I'll get on it immediately."
The door clicked shut behind him, and I was alone again with the ghost in my memory.
I slumped back in my chair, letting my mind start racing through everything.
There was something there, something just out of reach—just out of reach in my memory. I couldn't see it clearly, but I sensed a face and a voice.
And then the image came back to me—unbidden, fleeting. A girl, laughing with a friend across the crowded ballroom, her face turned away from me. I hadn't paid her any mind then. But now… something about the image made my heart ache.
Sally. And the girl beside her, the one who had looked at me and smiled…
My phone buzzed, a sharp, sudden intrusion. A text from a number I hadn't seen in years. The message was brief and chilling:
"Sally kept a journal. It's in her room. You should find it. She wrote about you."
I stared at the screen, my blood running cold. Who was this? And how did they know about Sally? About me?
Before I could react, another message appeared.
"The night at the Armitage. You don't remember her, do you? But she remembers you. And so does someone else."
My hand tightened around my phone. This wasn't a coincidence. Someone was playing with me, taunting me. They knew about the incident. They were aware of Sally and the mysterious girl.
I didn't respond. Instead, I dialed Julian. "I need you to expedite that search. And I need you to find out who just sent me this."
I forwarded the messages. "Find out who this is. Now."
"Understood," he said, his voice immediate and sharp. "Anything else?"
"Yes," I said, my mind racing. "Get me the Whitmores' address. I'm going to pay them a visit."
Julian was quiet for a moment. "Are you sure that's wise, boss? You showing up there… it could look bad. The press is already watching them like hawks."
"I don't care," I said, my voice low and firm. "I need to see that journal."
There was a pause on the other end, then Julian sighed. "Alright. I'll send you the address. But be careful. This… this feels like a trap."
"I know," I said. "But I'm walking into it anyway."
For a long while, I sat there in silence, staring out at the city—at its glittering towers and restless movement. A world full of power plays and secrets.
And somewhere out there was a woman whose face I couldn't remember… yet I could still feel the ghost of her touch on my skin.
Something about that passionate night refused to stay buried.
I had been so sure I'd never see her again. But now… I wasn't so sure. Because the girl from the party and the girl Sally had been with… they felt like the same person.
I stood, grabbing my coat from the back of the chair. I had a name to find. And a memory to reclaim.