Alexander sat alone in his penthouse office, the only light coming from the three huge screens on his desk. The city skyline glowed outside the windows, but he didn't notice. His fingers moved fast across the keyboard, pulling up reports, emails, numbers that should have mattered. They didn't.
He was restless. Had been since he sent that message to Elena two days ago and the one word from her.
Okay.
The word felt like someone had flipped a switch inside him. Twenty years of silence broken by four letters. He kept checking his phone like a teenager waiting for a crush to text back. Pathetic. But he couldn't stop.
He leaned back in the chair, rubbed his face, then opened a new tab. Habit more than anything. He typed her name into the search bar, Elena Thompson New York.
The results loaded quick.
First hit: her charity page. Bright Futures. A photo of her at a park event, kneeling next to a group of kids, smiling wide and real. Her hair caught the sunlight, eyes bright. She looked happy there. Not the polished wife smile from the gala photos. This was the Elena he remembered the one who used to laugh so hard she snorted when he told stupid jokes.
He clicked through.
More pictures. Elena handing out books at a school. Elena hugging a little girl who'd just won an art contest. Elena speaking at a fundraiser, looking straight into the camera like she believed every word she said.
His chest tightened. She hadn't changed. Not really. Still kind. Still beautiful in that quiet way that hit harder than any supermodel.
He scrolled further. Found her personal profile, private, but the cover photo was public. Her and Sophia on a beach somewhere. Sophia laughing, arms around Elena's neck. Elena's head thrown back, eyes closed, pure joy on her face.
Alexander stared at that photo longer than he should have.
Then he saw the tag: Marcus Thompson in the corner of the frame, half out of shot, looking at his phone.
Of course.
He closed the tab fast, like it burned him.
But he opened another one. Mutual friends. Old high-school classmates who'd moved to the city. One of them had posted a group photo from a reunion last year. Elena was in it center row, smiling politely. Marcus's arm around her waist. Possessive. Casual.
Alexander's jaw clenched.
He didn't know why he was doing this. Torturing himself. Looking for proof she was happy. Or unhappy. Or anything that would tell him it wasn't too late.
His phone buzzed. Not her. His assistant.
Gala details confirmed. Jet ready Friday. Isabella asked again if you're bringing a date.
He typed back: No date. Alone.
He tossed the phone on the desk.
Alone. That word felt heavier every year.
He stood up, walked to the window. Manhattan sparkled below—cars crawling like ants, lights endless. He owned pieces of this city. Buildings. Companies. Power. But right now it all felt worthless.
Because the one thing he wanted most was twenty blocks away, sleeping next to another man.
He went back to the desk, opened her profile again. This time he clicked the friends list. Saw Lila Reyes, Elena's best friend. Fashion designer. Loud, loyal, the kind of woman who'd punch you for hurting her people.
Lila had posted a story yesterday: coffee date with Elena. Caption: Talking sense into my favorite stubborn girl.
Alexander's pulse kicked up.
He hesitated. Then typed a message to an old mutual friend, someone who still talked to both of them.
Hey man. Long time. You still close with Elena? Wondering how she's doing these days.
He hit send before he could overthink it.
The reply came fast.
Dude. She's good. Married, kid, charity stuff. Looks happy in pictures. Why? You thinking of reaching out?
Alexander stared at the screen.
Maybe. Old times.
Careful. Husband's not the forgiving type. But yeah… she asks about you sometimes. Quietly.
His heart slammed.
She asked about him?
He didn't reply. Just closed the chat.
Then he opened Elena's message thread again. No new texts. Just his last one hanging there.
Can't stop thinking about you. Saturday can't come fast enough.
And her reply: Me too. I can't stop either.
He read it three times. Four.
His thumb hovered over the keyboard.
He typed slow.
I keep seeing your face everywhere. In old photos. In my head. At that gala, I'm going to find you. Even if it's just to hear your voice say my name again.
He stared at the words. Too much? Too soon?
He deleted half of it. Started over.
Thinking about you too. A lot. See you Saturday.
Simpler. Safer.
But before he could hit send, another thought hit him.
What if she showed up with Marcus? What if she pretended nothing ever happened between them? What if she looked at him like he was just some guy from the past?
The fear twisted sharp.
He deleted the message. Typed something else.
If you're still okay with meeting… I'll be the one in the black suit staring at the door like an idiot.
He sent it.
Then he waited.
Minutes dragged.
His phone stayed silent.
He stood up, paced the office. Poured a drink. Drank half. Paced again.
Finally—buzz.
Her reply.
I'll be there. In red. Look for me.
Red.
The same color she used to wear when they snuck out as kids. The color that made him forget his own name.
Alexander let out a shaky breath.
Saturday wasn't just a gala anymore.
It was a beginning.
Or an ending.
Either way, he was done waiting.
He raised his glass to the empty room, to the city lights, to the ghost of the girl who still owned him.
"To Saturday," he whispered.
And for the first time in twenty years, the words didn't taste like regret.
They tasted like hope.