The afternoon sun over Rittenhouse Square suddenly felt suffocating. I dropped to my knees on the sun-warmed pavement, my fingers closing around the worn, crinkled envelope. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. The handwriting scrawled across the front wasn’t just familiar—it was burned into my memory. It was Rachel’s.

The silence inside my sleek, minimalist apartment felt heavy, suffocating.

Noelle had refused to leave my side in the car ride back, demanding answers, tears streaking her perfectly applied makeup. But the moment we walked through the front door, the facade shattered completely. Waiting for us in the lobby security feed—and now standing right outside our door—was David Vance.

The door swung open, and David strolled in like he owned the place, casually tossing his car keys onto the mahogany entryway table. He wore his usual custom-tailored Italian suit, a smug, untouchable smirk playing on his lips.

"Well, well. Looks like someone finally found the missing puzzle piece," David chuckled, loosening his silk tie.

Noelle staggered backward, her hand flying to her mouth. "David? What are you doing here? How did you get into the building?"

"Please, Noelle, spare the dramatics," David said smoothly, his eyes locking onto mine with chilling indifference. "You didn't really think a brilliant girl like you was chosen by pure coincidence, did you? I handpicked you for Evan. Rich, influential, completely blind to the messy, blue-collar baggage of his past."

I stepped forward, the sound of my shoes hitting the hardwood floor sounding like gunshots in the quiet room. "You bastard," I whispered, the rage vibrating in every syllable. "You forged the letters. You drove Rachel away. You threatened her."

David didn’t flinch. He just laughed softly, walking over to the minibar and pouring himself a glass of scotch. "Oh, please, Evan. Don't play the tragic hero. Rachel was holding you back. We had a firm to build, millions to make. A weeping, broke college girlfriend pregnant with triplets? That would have anchored you to a life of mediocrity. I did you a favor."

"A favor?" I lunged forward, grabbing him by the lapels of his expensive suit and slamming him against the wall. The scotch glass slipped from his hand, shattering into a thousand amber shards on the floor.

Noelle screamed, pressing herself against the living room wall, wide-eyed and trembling.

David didn't look scared. He looked amused. He smiled, looking down at my hands gripping his jacket.

"Go ahead, Evan. Hit me," David taunted, his voice dropping to a low, venomous whisper. "Punch me right in the face. But before you do, you might want to ask yourself: where is Rachel right now? And more importantly... does she have enough money to hide from what I can do to her?"

My muscles locked. My knuckles burned with the desire to wipe that smirk off his face, but the mention of Rachel—and my three children—paralyzed me.

"Where is she, David?" I growled, pressing my forearm against his throat.

"Find out," David wheezed, a sadistic gleam in his eyes. "If you can."

With a sudden, violent burst of strength, David shoved me back, straightening his jacket with infuriating calmness. He walked toward the door, pausing with his hand on the handle.

"Oh, and Noelle?" David glanced back at my bewildered, weeping fiancée. "Call off the caterers. Your groom’s heart was never really in it anyway."