We met at a fundraiser.
He accidentally spilled champagne near my dress.
Apologized.
Found me later.
Sent flowers.
Waited weeks to ask me to dinner.
Never appeared interested in Mercer Holdings at first.
Never pushed.
Which suddenly seemed less romantic.
More strategic.
“What does his father want?”
“Mercer Holdings.”
My family company.
Founded by my grandfather.
Logistics.
River terminals.
Warehousing.
Commercial land.
A private company large enough to be worth fighting over and complicated enough that control mattered more than headlines.
When our parents died, Noah and I inherited significant voting interests through trusts.
Because Noah was believed permanently disabled, I gradually assumed more operational authority.
Adrian married the person holding the keys.
Me.
I looked toward the river.
“What happens now?”
Noah stood.
“We disappear.”
I stared.
“I have done enough disappearing for one family.”
“Only until morning.”
“No.”
“Elena.”
“Adrian thinks I’m dead.”
“Yes.”
“Vanessa thinks I’m dead.”
