Chapter 11
One year later.
The afternoon sun slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Carter Corporation’s top-floor office. Julian Carter sat at his desk, expression unreadable, flipping through reports like his life depended on it. His suit was sharp, his hair immaculate, but there was a haunted stillness to him that no Armani could hide.
Outside his office, a veteran employee led a new intern down the hallway, pointing out key departments.
“Hey, is it true?” the intern whispered, glancing toward Julian’s door. “Does Mr. Carter actually have a wife? He always says he does, but no one ever talks about her.”
The older employee shot a quick look around and tugged the intern into the breakroom.
“Keep your voice down if you want to keep your job,” he muttered. “It’s an open secret—Mrs. Carter passed away a year ago. But the boss? He never acknowledged it. Wouldn’t even hold a funeral.”
The intern’s eyes widened. “That’s… intense.”
“It gets worse,” the senior whispered, leaning in. “He still keeps her things exactly the same. Clothes. Shoes. Her toothbrush. The whole damn house looks like she just stepped out for coffee.”
The intern gasped, hand over mouth. “So he’s, like… mentally unwell? And still running this entire company?”
The older man shrugged. “He’s fine in every other way. Smart as hell in meetings, ruthless with numbers. But when it comes to her… he’s stuck.”
“Wait,” the intern added, “wasn’t there some woman who had his baby? Lin—uh—Rachel Carter?”
The senior worker immediately slapped a hand over his mouth. “Don’t ever say that name here. Ever.”
“She ‘fell’ down a flight of stairs right after Mrs. Carter died. Lost the baby. Paralyzed. Everyone knows what happened. Mr. Carter never visited her again. She was… erased.”
Julian passed the breakroom just then, hearing the murmurs. He didn’t flinch. He was used to the whispers. He didn’t care anymore.
Back at his estate, the house remained frozen in time.
Two pairs of slippers aligned perfectly at the entryway. The dinner table meticulously set for two. Even the chopsticks matched.
Julian ladled soup into two porcelain bowls and gently slid one across the table.
“Your favorite. Pork rib and yam. Just how you liked it.”
He blew on his spoon, then paused, as if someone across from him might take a bite first.
“People at the office are gossiping about you again,” he murmured. “Idiots. They don’t get it. You’re still right here.”
He nodded, responding to someone no one else could see.
“Alright, alright. I won’t feed you. You do it yourself.”
Mrs. Carter barged into the room right then.
“Why didn’t you show up for your psych appointment?”
Her eyes landed on the perfectly set table. Her mouth tightened.
“How much longer are you going to pretend?”
Julian didn’t even look up. “Mom, change your shoes. Isla hated dirty carpets.”
“Isla Monroe is dead!” she snapped. “You need help. You’re sick, Julian.”
Julian lifted his head, calm and cold. “She’s not dead. She’s just… mad at me.”
“That’s it. I’ve had enough,” she hissed, slamming a business card on the table. “You’re seeing Dr. Reed tomorrow. One more no-show and I’m throwing all her stuff out.”
She stormed out. Julian stared at the card.
The next day.
Julian stood at the reception desk of a sleek downtown therapy office. The receptionist gave him a bright smile.
“Mr. Carter? Dr. Reed is expecting you.”
She led him down a quiet hallway, stopping in front of a door.
“Hey, Rosie! You’ve got a visitor!”
That name punched the breath out of Julian’s lungs.
The door opened.
And there she was.
Same face. Same eyes. Same soft smile.
She looked at him with polite confusion. “You can come in. I’ll go get my brother.”
Julian’s world stopped. For the first time since Isla’s death, he saw her—outside the house, interacting with others. She was real. Real enough to speak. Real enough to exist.
His voice cracked like broken glass. “Isla…”
He lunged forward, pulling her into his arms, holding her like a man seconds away from drowning.
“You came back… I knew it. I knew you would.”
But this woman wasn’t Isla Monroe.
This was someone new.
Or maybe, just maybe, it was her after all.
