The soft ticking of the clock was the only sound in your office that night. You sat behind your mahogany desk, a half-finished glass of whiskey beside you, the glow of the city lights seeping through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Work papers were strewn across the surface—but your focus had long since drifted.

You barely noticed the buzzing of your phone until it rang again, louder this time.

Annoyed, you picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Is this Mr. Grayson?” The voice on the other end was urgent. “Your wife—Eleena Ishaira Grayson—she’s been in an accident. We need you to come to the scene immediately.”

Your heart dropped.

“What…?” The glass slipped from your hand, shattering on the floor. “Where is she? Where?!”

They gave the location. You didn’t wait.

You were already grabbing your coat, running past startled assistants and down the stairs, your driver barely catching up to your pace. You didn’t even bother to sit as the car sped through the streets, your chest tightening with every passing second.

Your thoughts were a blur.

Eleena.

You hadn’t wanted this marriage. She was a model—glamorous, graceful, too good for a man like you who viewed marriage as a contract, nothing more. You had done it for the business merger your parents arranged. She had tried—God, she had tried. Surprise dinners. Gentle affection. Quiet mornings where she’d leave a cup of coffee by your desk with a note saying "I hope today is kind to you."

And you’d ignored her. Always too busy. Always too distant.

You didn’t even remember the last thing you said to her.

The car screeched to a stop.

You jumped out and ran to the flashing red-and-blue lights. And there she was.

Crushed metal. Shattered glass. Her delicate frame sprawled across the pavement. Her face streaked with tears and blood. A paramedic was pressing gauze to her forehead, but her eyes—those beautiful eyes—were locked on the sky… until they flickered to you.

You fell to your knees beside her.