Julian Wolfe had not been seen in public for ten days.
For a man like him — a man who thrived on appearances, presence, power — ten days of silence was thunderous.
The tabloids filled the void like vultures.
"Julian Wolfe in Hiding After Hart Fallout?"
"Depression After PR Disaster? Sources Say Wolfe Skips Meetings"
"Savannah Spotted Alone at MetTrust Gala — Breakup Confirmed?"
"Is Wolfe Global Losing Its Grip?"
Speculation bred faster than truth ever could and Julian? He didn't correct the headlines, he didn't offer a quote, he didn't post a single curated photo, didn't leak a conveniently-timed appearance.
He just disappeared.
Inside his penthouse in Century City, the lights stayed low. The air smelled faintly of aged scotch and stillness. Daylight came and went through towering glass windows painting the marble floors in gold then blue then silver, time blurred.
He stood often at the edge of the glass watching the skyline flicker to life at night like a city still in motion without him.
In his hand, a tumbler of whiskey — expensive, untouched.
Across the room the fireplace screen glowed softly, dimly lighting the once-bustling home that now felt too large, too polished, too… empty.
He hadn't chased her.
Hadn't called.
Hadn't explained.
That was his mistake.
Because now, her absence echoed louder than any words he could have offered.
He could still see her though, standing on that rooftop in gold, defiant and divine. Her curls wild around her face, her eyes daring the world to underestimate her again.
He had watched the livestream on his phone like a punishment and then again and again.
"I survived a billionaire."
A sentence that hit him like a loaded gun.
And God, he hadn't even flinched when she walked away.
Why?
Why hadn't he said something?
Was it pride?
Fear?
Or just the twisted logic that told him people always came back?
Except… she hadn't.
Selena Hart had taken the wreckage of his campaign and built her own empire from it. She had smiled with power not apology. She had gone viral — not for scandal this time but for strength.
And Wolfe Global?
Was quietly beginning to crack.
The boardroom had grown colder, half-smiles around conference tables. "Concerns" raised during strategic meetings. Investors requesting "updates" on upcoming launches. Brianna Leigh's lawsuit loomed in the background like a storm.
The Wolfe x Hart campaign was never officially canceled.
But it no longer existed.
He had replaced her with Savannah once. Tried to sell the story backward and the public had rejected it like a bitter pill. Everyone could smell the spin, it reeked of desperation.
Now, the one woman who had once been just useful… was the one thing he couldn't manufacture, couldn't rehire, couldn't replace.
Selena was no longer an asset.
She was a loss.
And he felt it.
Not in numbers, not in market value or PR fallout.
But in silence.
In the ache that settled in his chest when her voice stopped echoing through his days.
In the way he reached for his phone every morning — only to remember she no longer called.
In the way his penthouse once designed for control and solitude now felt more like a tomb than a fortress.
And perhaps the most dangerous truth of all:
He didn't just miss her image.
He missed her.
The way she challenged him.
The fire in her eyes when she called him out.
The smile she only showed when she forgot to be guarded.
He missed the moments when it had stopped being fake.
When it had started to feel terrifyingly real.
But he'd said nothing.
He'd let her walk.
And now all he had was the echo.