Chapter 159 The Ghost I Couldn't Keep
Julian： POV
I stood in the doorway of my London flat, staring at the woman, Nancy, curled on my sofa. She had her knees drawn up, her arms wrapped around them, and even from here I could see the faint scar running along her jawline—a thin, silvery line that caught the lamplight.
She looked so much like Elena it made my chest ache. Maybe five, six out of ten in resemblance. Enough to make strangers do a double-take. Enough to make me do a double-take, that first time Blake called.
But not enough. Never enough.
I loosened my tie, the silk suddenly too tight around my throat. I needed to be clear-headed for this conversation. After seeing Elena—the real Elena—today, I couldn't keep this woman here any longer.
It felt like a betrayal. To Elena. To myself. To whatever fragile hope I'd been clinging to.
---
How did I even get here?
The question surfaced unbidden, pulling me back.
After the bridge. After the Coast Guard called off the search. After they told me Elena's body had likely been swept out to the Atlantic, that the chances of recovery were—
I didn't let them finish that sentence.
I'd gone home to the mansion and started drinking. Not socially. Not to numb the edge. I drank to erase. Bottles of Macallan 25, emptied and lined up on the counter like soldiers. I drank until I couldn't remember her name. Until I couldn't see her face when I closed my eyes.
It didn't work.
I ended up in the hospital three times in two months. Once for alcohol poisoning. Twice for dehydration and malnutrition because I'd forgotten to eat. The third time, my father showed up in the ER, his face a mask of cold fury.
"You have a choice, Julian," he'd said, standing at the foot of my bed. "You pull yourself together, or I'm giving your position to your brother. I won't let you destroy this company because of some worthless woman."
I'd wanted to hit him. I'd wanted to scream that it wasn't about the company, that I didn't care about Sterling Conglomerate, that the only thing I'd ever wanted was her and I'd thrown it away.
But I didn't. I just stared at the ceiling and said nothing.
A week later, they shipped me to London. "Temporary reassignment," they called it. A demotion dressed up in diplomatic language. I was put in charge of the European division—a smaller operation, less visibility, fewer ways to fuck up publicly.
My mother came to see me off at the airport. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and for the first time in my life, I saw her cry.
"Your father and I..." she started, then stopped. She looked away, blinking hard. "We're not doing well, Julian. We haven't been for a long time."
I didn't know what to say. I'd always thought they were solid. The perfect power couple. But I'd been too wrapped up in my own misery to notice the cracks.
"I'm sorry," I said, and I meant it.
She shook her head. "Don't be. Just... don't give up. Elena might still be out there. And even if she's not, you need to live. For her. For yourself."
Arthur had said something similar when he'd visited me in the hospital. He'd sat in the chair beside my bed, his hands folded over his cane, and said, "You want to honor her memory? Then stop trying to follow her into the grave. Get up. Do something. Make her proud."
So I did.
I threw myself into work. Sixteen-hour days. Meetings, acquisitions, strategy sessions. I rebuilt the London office from the ground up, turned it into something that rivaled New York. I didn't sleep much. Didn't eat unless someone put food in front of me. But I was functional. I was alive.
And then, a year later, Blake called.
"I think I saw her," he said, his voice tight. "Elena. At a nightclub in Shoreditch."
My heart stopped. "What?"
"I'm not sure. But she looks... fuck, Julian, she looks just like her."
I was out the door in minutes.
---
The woman at the nightclub wasn't Elena. I knew it the moment I saw her. The hair was wrong—darker, shorter. The way she held herself was different. Softer. Less guarded.
But the resemblance was there. In the curve of her cheek. The shape of her eyes. The way she tucked her hair behind her ear.
I stood across the street, watching her through the window, and felt something crack open inside me.
She worked at the nightclub, I learned. A waitress. And she was alone. No family. No friends. Just her and a one-room flat in a bad part of town.
I might have left it at that. Might have walked away.
But then I saw the man.
He cornered her in the alley behind the café, his hand on her arm, his body too close. She was trying to pull away, her voice rising in panic, and I didn't think. I just moved.
I grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the wall. He swung at me, caught me in the ribs, but I didn't care. I hit him once, twice, until he crumpled to the ground and stayed there.
The woman stared at me, her eyes wide. "Thank you," she whispered in accented English. "Thank you."
I should have left then. Should have called the police and walked away.
But she looked so much like Elena. And she was alone. And I was so tired of being alone.
"Do you have somewhere safe to stay?" I asked.
She shook her head.
"Come with me," I said.
---
She'd been living in my flat ever since. Sleeping in the guest room. Cooking meals I barely touched. Watching me with those wide, uncertain eyes, like she was waiting for me to tell her what to do.
I never touched her. Never even thought about it. She wasn't Elena. She was just... a placeholder. A ghost I'd invited into my home because I couldn't stand the silence.
But now, after today—after seeing Elena alive, holding her daughter, looking at me like I was a stranger—I couldn't do this anymore.
---
"You should go," I said, my voice coming out rougher than I intended.
The woman on the sofa looked up, startled. "What?"
"You should leave. I found... I found the person I was looking for."
Her face went pale. "Did I do something wrong?"
"No." I shook my head, suddenly exhausted. "No, you didn't do anything wrong. This was never about you."
She stood, her hands twisting together. "Then why—"
"Because I can't keep pretending," I said. "I can't keep using you as a stand-in for someone who's gone. It's not fair to you. And it's not fair to her."
Her eyes filled with tears, and I felt like the worst kind of bastard.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I'll make sure you're taken care of. Money, a place to stay, whatever you need. But you can't stay here."
She nodded slowly, then turned and walked toward the guest room. I heard the door close, heard the muffled sound of crying, and I wanted to put my fist through the wall.
A few minutes later, I heard a crash.
I ran to the guest room and found her on the floor, blood pooling around her hand. She'd knocked over a glass, and a shard had sliced deep into her palm.
"Fuck," I muttered, grabbing a towel and pressing it to the wound. "We need to get you to a hospital."
She looked up at me, her face streaked with tears. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."
"It's fine," I said, though it wasn't. Nothing about this was fine.