Years Later, Lovers Meet Again

Five years into my life in London, my fianc changed his profile picture.

It was a shot of a family of three. Anyone looking at it would think they were the picture of domestic bliss.

Before I could even call to interrogate him, his message popped up.

My wife gets jealous easily. Deleted you.

I swallowed down the bile rising in my throat and typed back.

"Who the hell is this? And since when did my boyfriend add you?"

My fianc sent back a string of question marks.

Then came a barrage of identical texts.

"Who the hell are you? Amy is my girlfriend!"

At that exact moment, the financial news channel on my TV was broadcasting a segment about the new head of the Manhattan based Lancaster empire. Victor Lancaster.

A reckless idea sparked in my mind. I typed out that unfamiliar name and hit send.

Sometime later, at a high society gala in Manhattan.

My former fianc was screaming like a madman, demanding to know what gave the man sitting at the head table the right to steal his woman.

"Girlfriend?"

The man raised a dark brow, his gaze shifting to me standing right in the center of the spectacle.

Just as my heart leaped into my throat, his lips curved into a faint, predatory smile.

"Come on then. Why don't you tell everyone exactly what is going on, Miss Sinclair?"

It was snowing heavily in London. The usually bustling streets were practically deserted.

A fire crackled in the hearth as I stood by the window wrapped in a thick cashmere shawl.

My eyes were still swollen from crying. Mrs. Hughes, the housekeeper who had looked after me my whole life, stood nearby with a face full of worry. She gently suggested that if I was still feeling down, she could accompany me for a walk.

I shook my head, forcing a weak smile. I told her I was fine and that she should go get some rest.

She knew my stubborn personality better than anyone, so she didn't push it.

Half an hour later, a private investigator back in the States sent me a fifty page dossier.

It turned out that by my second year abroad, Tristan Kensington was already sleeping with the maid's daughter, Daisy.

The only reason he hadn't gone public with her was that he couldn't bear to let go of the Kensington family's staggering wealth.

Tristan was the illegitimate son of the Kensington dynasty, only brought back into the fold when he turned eighteen.

He was incompetent. To ensure the family empire didn't crumble under his lack of skill, Old Man Kensington offered up a massive dowry, practically begging my family to agree to a marriage alliance.

At the time, my family's corporate funding had hit a brick wall. My parents were pulling their hair out, begging for investors all over the city.

I couldn't stand seeing them suffer, so I agreed to the arrangement.

The first time I met Tristan was at a high-end French restaurant.

He brought me a bouquet of fresh roses and sat across from me, looking genuinely nervous.

When the waiter brought out the steak, he naturally took my plate and cut the meat into perfect bite-sized pieces for me.

He drove me home afterward, and we talked the entire way.

I had grown up navigating the toxic vanity of high society and had seen every type of fake person imaginable.

But Tristan felt different.

He was tall, handsome, and impeccably polite. Even though he had clearly suffered through a rough life before being claimed by his rich father, his eyes still held a bright, genuine light.

We started seeing each other regularly. Every time we met, he had some small, thoughtful surprise waiting for me.

I fell for him. I couldn't stop myself.

When he finally confessed his feelings, I said yes.

Every single day of our relationship felt like a dream.

I had a terrible temper and was prone to throwing fits.

Aside from my parents, he was the only person in the world who tolerated my tantrums unconditionally.

Six months into our relationship, we got engaged.

Right around then, my family's business took another devastating hit. Left with no other options, my parents shifted their entire focus overseas to London, desperately trying to find a lifeline for the company.

As their only daughter and the future heir to the Sinclair Group, I didn't hesitate. I booked a flight to join them, refusing to stay behind in New York living off my trust fund while they fought in the trenches.

It poured rain the day I left. Tristan came to the airport to see me off.

His eyes were bloodshot. He looked completely heartbroken, promising he would wait for me forever and begging me not to forget him.

During my time in London, I texted him every single day to share the little details of my life.

At first, his replies were instant.

Gradually, I found myself waiting two or three days, sometimes even a full week, just to get a single message back.

Love doesn't just fade out of nowhere.

There is always a trail of breadcrumbs.

Now that Old Man Kensington had passed away, Tristan didn't have to pretend anymore. He didn't have to answer to anyone.

No wonder he couldn't wait to change the matching profile pictures we had used for years the second his grandfather was buried.

My parents flew back to New York a week ahead of me to attend the funeral.

I stayed behind in London to wrap up the final business negotiations.

After years of relentless grinding, the Sinclair Group had successfully clawed its way back from the brink of death. Business was booming, and we were preparing to move our global headquarters back to Manhattan very soon.

I instructed my assistant to pack my schedule to the brim. Aside from eating and sleeping, I worked until my eyes bled.

If I kept moving, I wouldn't have time to spiral.

I knew perfectly well that crying over a man, especially a cheating bastard, was the stupidest thing a woman could do. But humans are emotional creatures, and sometimes logic just takes a backseat.

I allowed myself to have bad judgment. I allowed myself to make mistakes. I allowed myself to grieve a failed relationship.

But I absolutely refused to let it destroy me.

I had half a month left before my flight home.

During that time, Tristan bombarded my phone every single day.

His texts were unhinged. He accused me of betraying him and swore he was going to hunt down and slaughter my so-called "wild man."

It was hilariously ironic.

His kid with Daisy was practically old enough to run around the house, yet he had the absolute audacity to demand I stay pure and loyal to him.

I didn't reply to a single text.

The day of my flight back to New York finally arrived.

Mrs. Hughes made me a steaming bowl of shrimp wonton soup first thing in the morning. Watching me finish every last drop, the deep frown she had worn for days finally dissolved into a warm smile.

With a full stomach, a long-lost sense of genuine joy washed over me.

I was finally saying goodbye to London and going back to the city where I grew up.

But I never expected that my welcoming committee would include Tristan.

My parents were stuck in terrible traffic on the way to JFK Airport. As I walked out of the arrivals gate, the first person I saw was my ex-fianc. And he wasn't alone. Daisy and the kid were right there with him.

Tristan marched toward me, radiating pure fury. He grabbed my wrist in a vice grip, his teeth practically grinding together. He demanded to know where the bastard was and why he didn't fly back with me.

Terrified he was actually going to hurt me, Mrs. Hughes completely lost it. She started kicking and hitting him with her purse, not caring who he was.

Tristan winced in pain, his brows knitting together, but he absolutely refused to let me go.

"Are you deaf, Amy? Answer the damn question!"

I just gave him a dead, silent smirk. I wasn't going to give him a single word.

My silence only made him more psychotic. His grip tightened painfully around my bones. He glared at me like he wanted to rip my throat out.

He called me a shameless tramp, accusing me of going abroad just to sleep around behind his back. He screamed that I owed him an explanation.

I had seen shameless people before, but this was a whole new level of garbage.

He was the one playing house with another woman, yet here he was, trying to nail me to a cross and play the victim.

My parents had warned me back then. They said Tristan lacked proper education and had spent his youth running with street trash. They told me that even if he acted like a polished gentleman, I shouldn't trust him completely.

I thought he was the exception.

The truth was, he was just a phenomenal actor.

In the middle of that suffocating standoff, Daisy walked over holding the little boy's hand.

She spoke in a sickeningly soft, fragile voice. She told me that even though she and Tristan were married and had a child, his heart had always belonged to me. She scolded me, saying what I did was unfair to him and that as a woman, I needed to have some self-respect.

She looked like a stiff breeze could knock her over. She kept her volume low, acting as if she was terrified of me.

To me, she sounded like a yapping stray dog.

I didn't even waste a second glance on her.

I looked at him coldly, asking if he really wanted an explanation.

Tristan puffed up his chest confidently. "Damn right I do! We haven't officially broken off the engagement. Legally, you are still my fiance. You parading around with some random guy is a direct slap to my face."

Talk about the audacity of men.

My patience completely evaporated. I raised my free hand and slapped him across the face with everything I had.

I hit him so hard my own palm went numb, the stinging shock traveling all the way up my arm.

A bright red handprint blossomed instantly across Tristan's cheek, swelling up within seconds.

He clearly never expected me to get physical. He dropped my wrist, clutching his face in absolute shock. He stammered, asking if I really just hit him.

I stared blankly at the man shrieking like a maniac in the middle of the terminal. I told him he deserved a lot worse. I admitted I was an idiot five years ago for buying his lies, but I made it crystal clear that as of today, we were completely done.

A flash of genuine panic crossed Tristan's eyes, but he quickly forced himself to calm down.

"Amy, don't say things you don't mean out of anger."

He spun a pathetic web of excuses. He claimed he didn't love Daisy. He said four years ago, someone slipped a drug into his drink, and Daisy sacrificed her own virtue to save his life. When she ended up pregnant, he had no choice but to take responsibility.

As for the profile picture and the text messages? He swore it was just a punishment for losing a bet during a poker game. He told me to go ask his frat buddies if I didn't believe him.

He admitted he married Daisy, but swore it was only to protect Noah. He didn't want the boy growing up being called a fatherless bastard, especially since he knew exactly how much that hurt from his own childhood.

I couldn't care less if a single word vomiting out of his mouth was true.

It didn't matter.

Betrayal is betrayal.

I wasn't interested in his tragic backstory or his pathetic justifications.

I looked at him with absolute ice in my veins. I asked him what exactly he expected. Did he seriously think I was going to pretend nothing happened and jump right back into his arms?

Tristan's eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. He immediately tried to grab my hands again. He praised me for always being so understanding, promising that he just couldn't give me the official title right now. He swore that once Noah was a little older, he would divorce Daisy.

His greedy calculations were practically smeared across his forehead.

Right on cue, Daisy chimed in. She played the tragic martyr, saying she knew her place and would never cling to Tristan. She even offered to let me legally adopt Noah if I wanted.

It sounded incredibly generous, but it was nothing but a calculated trap.

My parents only had me. I was already holding a high-level executive position in our empire. If that kid became my legal son, he wouldn't just skip the social ladder entirely. He would be handed the keys to the kingdom.

I wasn't falling for her manipulative guilt trips.

But Tristan ate it right up.

He held Daisy's hand, looking at her like she was a wounded angel. He called her the most understanding woman he had ever met and promised Noah would always know her as his real mother.

My stomach violently turned. The sheer disgust finally overwhelmed me, and I turned to the side and threw up.

Mrs. Hughes went into a frenzy, rubbing my back and frantically searching for a bottle of water.

Tristan, on the other hand, went completely dark. His face twisted into an ugly scowl as he harshly demanded to know if I was pregnant with the other man's bastard.

He reached out to grab me again.

Just in the nick of time, my parents finally arrived.

The second Tristan saw my father, his aggressive bravado vanished into thin air.

He immediately put on a sickeningly polite smile, greeting them and acting like a devoted son-in-law.

My parents didn't give him the time of day. They treated him like toxic waste.

Tristan stood there awkwardly, too terrified to even breathe loudly.

The speed at which he changed his tune was giving me whiplash.

If I didn't already know that his current real estate project was tanking and heavily relied on Sinclair Group's core tech to survive, I might have actually believed he respected my parents.

My parents carefully helped me into the backseat of the Maybach.

As the car pulled away, I glanced in the rearview mirror. Tristan had instinctively taken a few steps to chase after the car.

Then, the quiet little boy started wailing. Tristan's attention snapped right back to him.

For some unknown reason, Daisy started sobbing too.

Tristan was stuck on the sidewalk, frantically trying to comfort the crying kid and the weeping woman.

Tsk. Look how busy he is.

Inside the car, my mother couldn't stop cursing his name.

She called him absolute scum, regretting that she and my father ever agreed to the engagement.

My father sat tall, his aura terrifyingly cold. He swore that since Tristan dared to humiliate his daughter, he was going to make the boy wish he was never born.

I squeezed their hands, comforting them. I told them we dodged a massive bullet and cutting our losses now was a blessing.

Once we got to our penthouse in Manhattan, I crashed into bed and slept for a full twenty-four hours.

When I finally woke up, I could hear faint voices drifting from the living room.

It was my parents talking to our family doctor.

I rubbed my throbbing temples, sitting up slowly. It took me a minute to process their conversation.

The doctor told them I was suffering from severe exhaustion and needed strict bed rest.

My parents were anxiously asking him for a list of precautions.

After a while, the living room fell silent.

My bedroom door clicked open, and my mother walked in.

Seeing me awake, she immediately plastered on a bright smile. She asked what I was craving for dinner, offering tomato beef stew or a nourishing pork rib soup.

I didn't have an ounce of appetite, but I couldn't bear to make them worry. I thought about it and asked for the beef stew with a side of stir-fried greens.

My mother gently stroked my hair. She casually mentioned that a Mr. Lancaster was hosting a massive gala at the Century Grand Hotel tonight, and our family had received a VIP invitation.

She told me that since she and my father were preparing to step back from the spotlight, I needed to start showing my face at these elite gatherings.

I nodded and agreed to go.

My brain was still foggy from the long sleep. I completely forgot to ask who this mysterious "Mr. Lancaster" actually was.

My mother smiled in relief, whispering that her little girl was finally growing up.

The gala was set for eight o'clock.

I had plenty of time.

Time to eat, time to pick out an appropriately lavish gift for the host, and time to get my hair and makeup done perfectly.

By seven, I was sitting in the back of the Maybach wearing a stunning, fiery red evening gown.

Before leaving the house, I had stood in front of the full-length mirror for a very long time.

I was twenty-eight. Young, beautiful, vibrant, and proud.

This was the absolute prime of my life.

In a daze, a memory surfaced.

Ever since I started dating Tristan, I rarely wore bright colors.

He didn't like it when I looked too flashy or commanding.

He preferred women who looked soft, subdued, and easily controlled.

The car sped through the dazzling city lights.

For the first time in a long time, my heart felt completely at peace.

I arrived at the ballroom twenty minutes early.

Several socialites and business tycoons who recognized me came over with champagne flutes to welcome me back to the city.

I navigated the small talk flawlessly.

The event officially kicked off, but I still hadn't caught a glimpse of the elusive host.

I did, however, run into three incredibly unwelcome guests.

Tristan, Daisy, and that hostile little kid.

Tristan ditched Daisy and the boy, storming over to me with a face like thunder. He sneered, saying he was surprised I had the nerve to show my face in public.

Absolutely delusional.

He was the one who should be hiding in a sewer.

When I completely ignored him, Tristan started losing his temper. He raised his voice, mocking me, saying he couldn't wait to see if my wild man had the guts to show up.

He was raving like a lunatic.

Suddenly, a bolt of lightning struck my sleep-deprived brain. It finally clicked. The host's last name was Lancaster. My mother had respectfully called him "Mr. Lancaster."

There was only one man in the entire city of New York who commanded that level of absolute reverence from my mother.

A cold sweat broke out on my palms. Just as I was turning to find a quiet exit, the massive double doors of the grand ballroom swung open.

The man leading the entourage was incredibly tall. His features were striking and flawless, his aura radiating a terrifying, aristocratic chill. He owned the room just by stepping into it.

It was too late to run.

I tried to shrink into the shadows, backing into the most inconspicuous corner I could find.

But in the very next second, Tristan, being the absolute idiot he was, charged straight at the billionaire.

He pointed a finger, screaming like a madman.

"Victor Lancaster, I don't care how much money or power you have! Today I am exposing you for the scum you are! Everyone, look at this despicable bastard! He stole my girlfriend!"

Instantly, every single pair of eyes in the ballroom snapped directly to me.

And here I thought these billionaires didn't care about tabloid gossip. Apparently, everyone in the room knew exactly who I used to be engaged to.

Victor didn't even blink. He completely ignored Tristan, walking past him to take his seat at the center table.

"Girlfriend?"

He raised a dark brow.

His voice was like ice, reminding me of a biting winter storm.

It was heavily commanding. Lethal.

I ducked my head in absolute panic, wishing the marble floor would open up and swallow me whole.

I had heard the rumors about this man.

Ruthless. Bloodthirsty. A monster in a bespoke suit.

The seconds dragged on like hours. My heart was practically beating out of my chest.

The silence in the room was suffocating. I slowly peeked up, only to lock eyes with a pair of abyss-like, pitch-black irises.

The man's lips curved into a faint, dark smile.

"Come on then. Why don't you tell everyone exactly what is going on, Miss Sinclair?"