Chapter 3
1110words
Midtown Manhattan. The penthouse floor of a gleaming office tower.
The Phoenix Capital logo caught the morning light. Evelyn stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows, gazing down at the steel jungle below. A year ago, she'd had nothing. Now, leveraging experience from her previous life and connections from this one, she'd built her empire at a pace that left Wall Street stunned.
No longer anyone's shadow. No longer living for someone else's dreams.
She worked for herself.
The thought brought immense satisfaction.
"Ms. Hayes." Her assistant knocked and entered with a document. "Your three o'clock investment meeting for the indie film 'Dust Poems' is confirmed. Julian Vance's team has arrived."
"Thank you." Evelyn nodded.
Julian Vance. Even Evelyn, typically indifferent to Hollywood, recognized the name. America's most sought-after actor, blessed with talent and integrity—a nearly flawless reputation. Why would someone of his caliber be chasing funding for a small art film?
Evelyn entered the conference room braced for an entitled celebrity ego. In her previous life, Richard had become exactly that after success.
But she'd miscalculated.
Across the table sat Julian Vance in a simple white tee and jeans, looking like a college student fresh from campus. No sunglasses, no entourage of bodyguards. Just a quiet, gentle smile that warmed the room's clinical atmosphere like sunshine.
As the meeting began, Evelyn shifted into business mode, her questions precise as a scalpel.
"Mr. Vance, I've read the script. It's emotionally rich, but the pacing drags and the character arcs lack definition. I don't see commercial viability. Phoenix Capital doesn't invest in sentiment alone."
She expected the passionate defense typical of artists. Instead, Julian listened attentively, then nodded.
"You're right, Ms. Hayes. From a purely commercial standpoint, it's risky," he admitted candidly. Then those famous blue eyes—which tabloids claimed contained "stars and oceans"—focused on her. "But film isn't just business. It can be poetry, a love letter to the lonely. I want to make this not for profit, but because when someone watches it at 2 a.m. and feels understood—that's success."
His voice carried no performance, only sincerity.
Something stirred in Evelyn's heart. How long since she'd heard such pure expression, untainted by profit motive? Richard had once spoken with such idealism before capitalism devoured it whole.
"Ideals won't satisfy my shareholders," Evelyn said, suppressing her reaction. "I need something tangible."
"Of course." Julian smiled, retrieving a document from his team. He methodically outlined his comprehensive plan—from leveraging his international profile for cost-effective promotion to the minimum guarantee agreements already secured with European streaming platforms.
His logic was clear, his thinking meticulous, his market understanding deeper than many of her analysts'.
Not just an artist with lofty ideals—a producer who understood both creative vision and business reality.
Throughout the hour, Evelyn's guard gradually lowered before his honest professionalism.
As they concluded, she announced: "Phoenix Capital agrees to invest in principle. My team will handle the details."
Her fastest investment decision in six months.
"Thank you, Ms. Hayes." Julian stood and extended his hand.
After shaking hands, he didn't immediately release hers. Instead, he nodded toward the worn poetry book at the edge of her desk. "'Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?'" he quoted softly.
Evelyn's breath caught.
"I'm working on it," she heard herself reply.
"Well then," Julian released her hand, his smile deepening, "to celebrate your answer, and our new partnership, may I invite you to a place where the coffee is terrible but the scones are the best in New York?"
The invitation caught her off guard—so ordinary. No business pretense, no social maneuvering. Just the simplest invitation from a man to a woman.
Evelyn looked into his clear blue eyes and, surprising herself, nodded.
***
Meanwhile, at Sterling Power headquarters, the atmosphere hung heavy as storm clouds.
Richard yanked at his tie and slammed a document onto the table.
"This is what you produce after a week? Completely worthless!" he roared at the trembling executives.
Since the engagement fiasco that had made him New York's laughingstock, his temper had grown increasingly volatile. He'd assumed Evelyn's departure merely meant losing a capable assistant. He'd quickly assembled a more "professional" team to replace her.
But things weren't that simple.
On paper, the company thrived, with stock prices hitting record highs. But privately, he watched things spinning out of control. The complex relationships and undercurrents Evelyn had managed so deftly with her gentle touch had become ticking time bombs.
Like this proposal to appease the company's veteran directors.
When Evelyn was around, she'd always found ways to keep those old-timers satisfied yet compliant. Now his "elite" team only knew how to respond with cold jargon and data, thoroughly alienating them.
"Get out! Redo it!" Richard waved dismissively, sending everyone scurrying.
Alone in his cavernous office, he slumped back, rubbing his temples. A thought ambushed him: If Evelyn were here, how would she handle this?
The thought infuriated him. He slammed his fist on the desk.
He didn't need her! He was more successful than ever! He'd proven that without her, Richard Sterling could still conquer the world!
He grabbed his phone, seeking distraction from his anger. The financial app's headline featured "Phoenix Capital founder Evelyn Hayes," praising how her precise vision had made her Wall Street's most formidable new player in just one year.
Richard snorted and swiped away the article.
But as he was about to close the app, an entertainment notification caught his eye.
The headline blared: "EXCLUSIVE! Julian Vance spotted with mystery woman—new romance revealed?!"
He opened the photo. He recognized the restaurant—an understated Italian place in the West Village, notoriously difficult to book. In the image, Julian Vance—"Sexiest Man Alive"—gazed attentively at his companion, grinding pepper onto her pasta, his expression tender enough to melt steel.
And that woman—
That woman smiling up at Julian, radiating a happiness Richard had never witnessed before—genuine, unguarded joy.
Was Evelyn.
Something snapped in Richard's brain with an almost audible crack.
The phone slipped from his hand, hitting the carpet with a dull thud. He didn't notice.
His eyes remained fixed on the image. Evelyn's smile was a poisoned dagger, plunging into his heart and twisting viciously.
How could she look so happy?
How dare she look so happy?
After leaving him, shouldn't she be miserable and regretful? Shouldn't she be floundering, desperate, eventually crawling back to beg forgiveness?
Why did she look a hundred times happier than she ever had with him?
A fury more intense than his public humiliation swept through him. But beneath it lurked another emotion—colder, vaster—that he refused to acknowledge.
A toxic panic called regret.
