Chapter 3

Elias had tried to explain before. He had tried to tell Isadora's friends, her parents, anyone who would listen. He told them about their life in Ohio, about the promises they had made, about the love that had been so real.

No one believed him.

The Navarro family was powerful. They had scrubbed Isadora' s past clean. The records of her breakdown in Ohio, the private investigators they sent, her time living in his small apartment-it was all gone, buried under a mountain of money and influence. To the world, she had simply taken a short sabbatical before returning to the family business, refreshed and ready. Elias Jensen was a nobody, a footnote no one cared about.

"Look at the handwriting," Elias said now, his voice tired. He held up one of the letters. "Even you can't deny that's her signature."

Jordan' s eyes darted towards the letter, a flicker of uncertainty in them. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by a sneer.

"Easy to forge. You've had plenty of time to practice, haven't you? Staring at her pictures, trying to copy her handwriting. It's pathetic." He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "You're trying to use these to get to her, to seduce her. It won't work."

It was Isadora's presence in the doorway that had given Jordan the opening he needed, and now it gave him his audience. He knew she was watching, listening.

Jordan froze, his eyes wide with panic. He looked at the letters in his hand, then at the basket full of them. He couldn't let her see these. Even with her memory gone, the handwriting, the sheer volume of them, might plant a seed of doubt he couldn't afford.

In a swift, desperate move, he lunged for the fireplace and shoved the letters he was holding into the wastebasket. He grabbed the Zippo from Elias's hand and tossed it in. The letters caught fire instantly.

Then, he did something Elias never would have expected. Jordan let out a cry and threw himself backwards, crashing into a small table and sending a lamp flying. He landed on the floor in a heap.

The metal wastebasket tipped over, spilling burning letters and glowing embers onto the plush carpet.

The door flew open wider.

Isadora rushed in, her eyes wide with alarm. She saw the small fire, the overturned lamp, and Jordan on the floor. Then she saw Elias, standing over him.

Without a moment's hesitation, she shoved Elias aside, her face a mask of fury.

"Get away from him!" she shrieked.

She knelt beside Jordan, her hands fluttering over him. "Jordan, are you hurt? What did he do to you?"

Jordan coughed, putting on a masterful performance of a victim. He pointed a trembling finger at Elias.

"Issy... he... he wrote me these disgusting love letters," he choked out, his voice full of feigned revulsion. "He tried to force them on me. When I refused, he... he got violent. He pushed me and set them on fire to destroy the evidence."

Isadora's head snapped up, her eyes blazing with a hate so pure it stole Elias's breath.

"You... monster," she spat.

"That's not what happened," Elias said, his voice hoarse. "He's lying."

"Lying?" Isadora stood up, her entire body trembling with rage. "I saw it with my own eyes! You stood over him while he was on the floor!"

"He set the fire himself!" Elias insisted. "He was trying to destroy the letters you wrote to me!"

Jordan let out a pained groan. "Issy, my ankle... I think it's broken. He pushed me so hard."

"You see?" Isadora's voice was filled with a chilling certainty. "You are a violent, despicable human being." She looked at Elias as if he were something she had scraped off her shoe. "First you stalk me, and now you attack my fiancé? You are obsessed and dangerous."

Elias just stared at her, his heart shattering into a million pieces. The woman he loved, the woman he had protected and cared for, was looking at him with the eyes of a stranger, convinced he was a villain.

His own pain, his own suffering, meant nothing to her. Jordan's fabricated story was her absolute truth.

A gust of wind from the open terrace door blew across the room. It stirred the ashes in the fireplace, sending a single, half-burnt piece of paper fluttering through the air.

It landed at Isadora's feet.

She glanced down, annoyed. For a second, her eyes registered the familiar, looping script on the charred paper. Her own handwriting. A flicker of confusion crossed her face, a momentary crack in her armor of certainty.

Did she write that? It felt... familiar.

"Issy," Jordan whimpered from the floor, clutching his ankle. "It hurts."

The crack sealed over instantly. Her fleeting doubt was forgotten. She pushed it away, her focus snapping back to Jordan, her priority.

"I'm here," she said softly, turning her back on Elias completely. She helped Jordan to his feet, her arm wrapped protectively around him. "Let's get you to a doctor."

She guided him out of the room without a single backward glance.

Elias was left alone in the middle of the mess. The smell of smoke, the scattered ashes of his memories, the lingering chill of her hatred.

It was over. Whatever hope he had clung to was gone, turned to ash and stomped into the carpet.

He had to get out. He had to accept the deal from the strange, powerful woman who had appeared like a phantom. It was his only way.

He walked out of the room, leaving the last remnants of his past to smolder.

The next day, a team from Blake Ward's company arrived. They brought boxes. Dozens of them. They were filled with gifts for him, they said. Custom-tailored suits, handmade Italian shoes, a collection of watches that probably cost more than his entire hometown.

A polite, impeccably dressed man who introduced himself as Blake's assistant, Mr. Harrison, supervised the delivery. Behind him, two stern-faced security consultants installed a new, high-tech lock on Elias's door.

"Ms. Ward insisted you have these," Mr. Harrison said with a respectful bow. "She believes her future husband should want for nothing. She also sends her profound apologies for last night's security breach. It will not happen again. In fact, she has instructed us to provide you with this." He offered Elias a sleek, heavy wristwatch. "It contains a discreet GPS tracker and a panic button. A necessary precaution, under the circumstances."

Elias stared at the mountain of luxury goods, feeling completely overwhelmed. He was a man who owned two pairs of jeans and a collection of grease-stained work shirts. This was a foreign language.

"She also wanted me to convey her apologies for her absence," Mr. Harrison continued. "A hostile takeover bid requires her full attention. However, she has cleared her schedule for your wedding."

Elias just nodded, numb, slipping the watch onto his wrist.

He knew he should be grateful. This was his salvation. But it felt like he was trading one cage for another, albeit a much more gilded one.

He felt a sudden need to do something, anything, to feel like he still had some control over his own life. He had to give her a gift in return. It was a matter of principle. He couldn't just be a kept man.

"Mr. Harrison," Elias said, finding his voice. "I need to go out. I need to buy a gift for Ms. Ward."

Mr. Harrison looked momentarily surprised, but he recovered quickly. "Of course, Mr. Jensen. The car is at your disposal."

Elias found himself in a limousine, being driven down Fifth Avenue. He asked the driver to stop in front of a famous, ridiculously expensive jewelry store. He stepped out, his simple clothes feeling completely out of place among the fur coats and designer bags.

The salespeople inside took one look at his worn jacket and jeans and immediately dismissed him. They greeted other customers with fawning smiles but ignored him completely, their faces cold with disdain.

Elias didn't care. He wasn't there for them. He walked slowly past the glass cases, looking for something that felt right for a woman like Blake Ward. Something powerful, elegant, but not flashy.

He was so focused that he didn't notice the group of young men entering the store until they surrounded him. He recognized them instantly. They were Jordan's friends, the same ones who had heckled him outside Isadora's building weeks ago.

"Well, well, well," one of them sneered. His name was Chad, a trust-fund kid with a cruel mouth. "Look what the garbage truck dragged in. Slumming it on Fifth Avenue, Jensen?"

"Leave me alone," Elias said, turning to walk away.

They blocked his path.

"Not so fast," another one, Bryce, said, shoving him lightly. "We heard you put your hands on Jordan. We don't like that. We're here to teach you a lesson."