In the hospital, Asher sat by Julia's bedside.
He had been there for a week, a model of concern, but today a strange unease gnawed at him. Something important was slipping through his fingers, and he didn't know what it was.
Julia's voice, as soft and gentle as ever, broke the silence. "Asher, after I'm discharged, do you think I could stay with you for a little while? Just in the guest room. I don't want to cause any more trouble for Cailin."
Asher frowned. "You have your own apartment."
"I just… I want to apologize to Cailin in person."
"Don't," he said, his tone sharp with impatience. "That's between me and her. I'll handle it."
As the words left his mouth, a cold realization dawned on him.
In the past, whenever he messed up, Cailin was always the one to reach out, to smooth things over. But now… a full week had passed. Not a single call. Not one text.
This wasn't her. This wasn't normal.
He pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering for a moment before he finally unblocked Cailin’s number.
And then he saw it. The single, stark message she had sent a week ago:
[The penthouse is all yours.]
He froze. His heart hammered against his ribs as he frantically dialed her number.
Voicemail. He called again. And again.
Asher shot to his feet, grabbing his jacket and dialing his office as he moved.
"Where is Cailin? Put her on the phone."
The voice of his assistant, Liam, came through the line. "Mr. Kane, Ms. Bishop has resigned. She is not in the office."
"Impossible," Asher snapped. "She's the co-founder of the foundation. She can't just quit."
Liam sounded genuinely surprised. "She completed the share transfer and liquidation a week ago, sir. Didn't you know?"
"What? We built that foundation together. How could she do that without telling me?"
There was a brief silence, then the sound of shuffling papers. "Sir, she left a copy of the original partnership agreement. The one you both signed eight years ago. It stipulates she has full disposal rights over her shares."
Asher's hands began to shake. "So she gave up the foundation... Does that mean she's giving up on me?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He stormed back into the hospital room, grabbed his coat, and bolted for the door.
Julia sat up, stunned. "Asher, where are you going? You said you'd stay with me!"
He shook her hand off his arm. "There are nurses for that."
"But I only want you—"
"I have no obligation to you," he snarled, repeatedly redialing Cailin's number.
No answer.
He tried her number again. This time, it didn't even ring, going straight to a recorded message: the number was no longer in service.
His agitation grew into full-blown panic. "Cailin, you promised," he whispered at the dead screen, a hot blur of tears stinging his eyes. "You promised your phone would always be on for me. Why is it off? Why?"
He stared at the screen, muttering to himself, lost in his own unraveling.
Suddenly, the screen lit up with an incoming call.
It was Liam.
"Mr. Kane, I just saw Ms. Bishop's social media. It seems she's leaving Rivera."
Thud.
The phone slipped from his grasp and clattered on the floor.
A terrible certainty slammed into him—Cailin was abandoning him. For good.
The phone that was always on for him... was off. And now she was leaving the city.
"No," he shook his head, a desperate denial rising in his throat. "She said she would always be with me. She said we would get engaged this year. I saw her talking to wedding planners… for the dress, the venue. She's waiting for me at home. Yes… she's at home."
Asher snatched his phone off the floor and sprinted to the parking garage.
He tore through the city streets, driving back to the penthouse at a reckless speed.
The front door was ajar. A wave of relief washed over him. "She wouldn't leave me."
He walked in—and froze.
A real estate agent was standing in the living room, giving a tour to a prospective buyer.
Asher exploded. "Who the hell are you? What are you doing in my home?"
The agent, unfazed, calmly produced a document.
"Ms. Bishop retained our services to handle the sale before she departed. Her personal effects have been moved to a temporary residence downtown."
Asher latched onto the only words that mattered. "When did she leave?"
The agent frowned at his tone but answered. "Her private jet is scheduled for takeoff at one p.m. this afternoon."
It was noon.
He still had time.
Without another word, Asher turned and ran, racing to the Rivera private airport.
His heart pounded a frantic, unfamiliar rhythm against his ribs.
Panic washed over him like a tidal wave—violent, terrifying, and devastatingly real.
