Holden Wolf POV:
The next few days were a blur of frantic, desperate activity. I tore through the house, searching for any trace, any clue, any ghost of Chelsea. I questioned my mother, my stepfather, even the house staff. No one knew anything. My mother, tight-lipped and furious, simply said, "She got what she deserved, Holden. Running off like a common vagrant. Good riddance." Her words, usually so impactful, now felt like distant static.
I called Kamryn, my voice hoarse, demanding to know if she had heard anything. She sounded confused, then annoyed. "Holden, I told you, she blocked me! She probably ran off with some art student. Honestly, you're obsessing."
Obsessing. The word stung, but it was true. I was obsessed. Haunted. Driven to madness by her sudden, complete disappearance.
My business, my empire, my carefully constructed world-it all crumbled around me. Meetings were missed, emails ignored, deals left on the table. My assistant, a stoic man named Mark, looked increasingly concerned.
I paced her empty room, the silence suffocating, the bare walls mocking my desperation. Every surface that had once held her art, her books, her quirky trinkets, was now barren. A mirror reflecting my hollowed-out soul.
How could I have been so blind?
My mind replayed every interaction, every dismissal, every casual cruelty. I saw Chelsea's eyes, wide with hope, then dimming with disappointment. I heard her voice, eager to share, then quieting into an almost imperceptible whisper.
I remembered the sketchbook, full of my designs, that I had so carelessly thrown in the trash. The designs she' d passionately presented to me on her eighteenth birthday, only for me to tear them apart. This is sick, Chelsea! I'm your brother! The words, once meant to establish boundaries, now sounded like a death knell.
The pain was a physical entity, a crushing weight in my chest, a constant, throbbing ache behind my eyes. I was losing my mind.
I picked up my phone, the cracked screen a reflection of my shattered sanity. I scrolled through old messages, old conversations. Mine were short, dismissive, often just single words. Hers were long, detailed, full of excitement, hope, and an unwavering belief in me.
Chelsea: Holden, I saw this amazing exhibition today! The way they draped the fabric, it was just incredible. It really made me think about my own concepts for the Parsons portfolio. What do you think about using more asymmetry in the evening wear line?
Me: Busy. Good for you.
Chelsea: I finally perfected that stitch you showed me! It took ages, but look! It's so smooth now. I attached a photo. Remember how you said practice makes perfect? You were right!
Me: Okay.
The memory of her face, eager and bright, then falling slack with disappointment at my curt replies, twisted in my gut. I had been so cold. So dismissive. So utterly uncaring.
She asked for so little, I realized, the truth a bitter pill. And I gave her nothing.
I had always pushed her away. Always. Convinced that my aloofness would make her stronger, more independent. Convinced that my "brotherly" distance was for her own good. But all I had done was create this chasm. And now, she had finally slipped over the edge.
"Mark!" I barked into the intercom, my voice raspy. "Find her. Find Chelsea. I don't care what it takes."
Mark, my assistant, appeared in the doorway, his face a mask of concern. "Sir, I've been trying. Her phone is disconnected. Her social media is gone. Her bank accounts... they were emptied." He hesitated. "But I found something. A flight manifest. To New York. And she was accepted into Parsons. Your uncle, Geoffrey Farmer, seems to be sponsoring her."
The words hit me like a physical blow. New York. Parsons. Uncle Geoffrey. It was a complete, deliberate cut. She hadn't just left. She had orchestrated an entirely new life. Without me.
The shock gave way to a cold, burning possessiveness. Mine. She was mine. My Chelsea. My sister. My responsibility.
"New York?" I snarled, slamming my fist on the desk. "She thinks she can just run off to New York? What is she thinking? She needs me. She always has."
Mark cleared his throat. "It seems, sir, that she has found a new support system."
A new support system. The words ignited a fiery rage in my chest. Who was this Dominic Aguilar? Who was this "brilliant young man" my uncle was setting her up with?
"Book me a flight," I commanded, my voice raw with desperation and fury. "To New York. The first available flight. I don't care about the cost. I don't care about anything. Just get me there."
My empire could burn. My engagements could crumble. My reputation could shatter. Nothing mattered but finding Chelsea. Reclaiming her. Bringing her back.
She was mine. And I would go to the ends of the earth to get her back. I would make her understand. I would make her see that she belonged with me. Always.
As I rushed to the airport, a frantic scramble of a man whose world had imploded, a bitter irony settled in. I, Holden Wolf, the man who had always prided himself on his control, his logic, his unwavering composure, was now a desperate, lovesick fool. All for the girl I had pushed away. The girl I had called "sister." The girl I now realized I couldn't live without.
