“She works at the Hawthorne Fine Art Gallery downtown,” the teenager whispered, ignoring the money and tugging Maya away. “She’s the floor manager. That’s all I know.”
“Thank you,” Marcus choked out.
He didn’t watch them walk away. He grabbed his briefcase, shoved his wallet into his pocket, and ran to his black Mercedes parked half a block down.
When he slammed the car door shut, the silence of the luxury cabin surrounded him. He gripped the leather steering wheel, his knuckles turning ash-white. His breath came in ragged, jagged gasps.
She died five years ago.
The memory was etched into the deepest, darkest corner of his brain. He had been in London, closing a massive acquisition for his father’s firm. The phone call came at 3:00 AM. His father, Arthur, was on the other end, his voice unusually somber. “Marcus. There’s been an accident on Route 9. A drunk driver crossed the median. Elena’s car went over the embankment. It caught fire, son. I’m so sorry.”
Marcus had flown back on the private jet, catatonic. By the time he landed, Arthur had already "handled everything." The coroner’s report. The police statements. The closed casket. Arthur had put a heavy hand on Marcus’s shoulder and told him that the fire had been too destructive. “You don’t want to see her like that, Marcus. Remember her as she was.”
Marcus had spent the next three years trying to drink himself to death, only pulling himself out of the abyss when Arthur threatened to legally remove him from the family trust. Marcus had thrown himself entirely into the firm, taking over as CEO, becoming exactly the ruthless, emotionally hollow man his father had always wanted him to be.
And now, a little girl with Elena’s eyes and his own dark skin had just handed him a red bucket and dismantled his entire reality.
Marcus threw the car into drive and sped away from the curb.
The drive to the downtown arts district was a blur of traffic lights and engine noise. Marcus broke the speed limit twice, swerving around delivery trucks, his mind racing through a thousand impossible scenarios. Was it a twin? Elena didn’t have a twin. Was the girl lying? The girl couldn't have faked that reaction to the tiny photo. Was he losing his mind?
He skidded into a parking space outside the Hawthorne Fine Art Gallery. It was an upscale, modern building with floor-to-ceiling glass windows displaying massive abstract canvases.
Marcus stepped out of the car. He didn't bother to lock it.
He walked up the concrete steps, pushed open the heavy glass doors, and stepped into the cool, air-conditioned quiet of the gallery. The air smelled of expensive espresso and oil paint. Classical music played softly from hidden speakers. Wealthy patrons in designer clothes drifted between the exhibits, holding delicate glasses of champagne.
Marcus stood frozen just inside the entrance, his dark eyes scanning the vast room.
He saw the security guard. He saw the wealthy older couples analyzing a sculpture.
And then, he heard it.
A laugh. Soft, bright, ringing with a slight musical lilt at the end.
Marcus stopped breathing. He knew that laugh better than he knew the sound of his own heartbeat. He had dreamed of that laugh. He had woken up screaming because he couldn't hear that laugh anymore.
He turned slowly toward the back of the main exhibit hall.
A woman was standing with her back to him, wearing an elegant black pencil skirt and a tailored emerald silk blouse. Her dark, thick hair was pulled up into a sophisticated twist. She was holding a clipboard in one hand and a tall flute of champagne in the other, politely chatting with an older gentleman in a tweed suit.
Marcus couldn't feel his legs. He moved purely on instinct, taking one slow step, then another, closing the distance across the polished marble floor.
He stopped ten feet away.
“Elena,” he whispered. The name sounded foreign on his tongue. It tasted like ash and miracle.