Chapter 75: Kellan

KELLAN’S POV

I leaned back in the leather chair of my suite, my gaze fixed on the streetlights glowing against the dark London skyline. The city sprawled before me, alive and glittering, but it was wasted on a mind too clouded to notice. On the table beside me, a glass of whiskey sat untouched, condensation dripping onto the polished surface.

None of those conversations that I replayed in my head made any difference. Every word Amanda had spoken was like a record playing on in my brain: the hesitation at my question about her past, the politeness but carefulness of the answers, the way her smile fluttered too fast whenever Carl was in the room-as if it wasn't hers at all, but something she had been taught.

Controlled.

By him.

I pushed to my feet and began pacing, the frustration boiling in my chest. It wasn’t just her face—that face I’d tried and failed to forget. It was everything. Her nervous habits. The way she twisted her ring unconsciously, like some invisible part of her was screaming to get out. The way her laughter, soft, musical, sounded like it belonged to a ghost.

Then there was the hesitation.

Every damn time.

"Who are you really, Amanda?" I growled against my pillow as my voice snapped whip-like in the quiet room.

The phone interrupted and sent me back, though, jolting a hiss through my teeth; mine immediately. "Kellan Easton.”

"Mr. Easton, it's Thomas, the investigator."

I straightened, fingers tightening around the phone. I'd called him late last night, acting on instinct—or maybe desperation. I wasn't sure anymore.

"Yes, Thomas." My voice was curt. "Tell me you have something."

There was a pause before Thomas answered, cautious but firm. "Not much yet, but I've found… inconsistencies.

My pulse quickened. "Inconsistencies?"

“Carl Martins checks out. On paper, at least, he runs a clean operation. No obvious red flags there."

"I don't give a damn about Carl's business," I snapped-the impatience bubbled up. "What about Amanda?"

"That's where things get interesting," Thomas said, his voice dropping a little lower. "There's no record of Amanda Dawson existing before two years ago. It's as if her entire history starts there-like someone wiped it clean.

I froze. It felt like a sledgehammer blow right between the breasts.

"What do you mean 'wiped clean'? Everyone has a past.

"Precisely," Thomas said. "Either someone wiped out her history, or she is not what she claims to be."

The words just hung in the air a little longer, like smoke.

I ran a hand through my hair, then quickened my pace, trying to wrap my head around it. "Keep digging. I don't care about the cost-find everything you can about Amanda and Carl. Every detail."

"I'll keep you posted."

It died a silent death, but its stillness boomed in my ears.

No record. No history.

Who the hell was she?

\---

The following morning, I walked into the headquarters of Martins Industries. Carl's meetings were a show-and his playground to wield his power and influence. But this time, it wasn't for him that I was here.

For her.

Amanda.

The moment I entered that glass-walled conference room, she was there-standing near the far end, pouring coffee into delicate white cups. Carl was yapping to some senior executive, but I hardly registered his voice. I was fixed on Amanda.

She half-turned around, her back to me, not having a clue I was watching her. I closed the gap.

"Good morning."

She winced, just barely, before she turned around. Her gaze lifted to mine, and there it was again-that flicker of hesitation before she smiled. A smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Mr. Easton," she said softly.

"Kellan," I corrected her, my voice low.

She nodded quickly; a polite smile tugging at her lips as she extended a cup of coffee to me. "I wasn't expecting you at this meeting.”

“Last-minute decision." I watched her closely as I sipped the coffee, observing how tensed her shoulders were-bracing herself. "I hope I'm not making things more difficult for you."

"Difficult?" Her brow furrowed, but not before her fingers tightened on the cup.

"With Carl," I continued, still casual. "He doesn't seem to like me talking to you.

She didn't answer right away. Instead, she looked down into her coffee, her face carefully blank.

"Carl has taken care of me for a long time," she said quietly.

"Taken care of you?" I said, the words like venom on my tongue. "Because of the accident?"

Amanda's head jerked up; her eyes were wide. "How do you know about that?

"You mentioned it before." I leaned my head, watching her closely. "It must've been hard-losing parts of yourself like that."

Her fingers shook a little, the coffee sloshing in her cup. "Carl says it's better not to dwell on the past."

"Is that what you think?" I pressed.

Her gaze lifted to mine again, and for a second-just one second-I saw something break in her expression. A crack in the mask. Fear? Doubt? I wasn't sure, but it was there.

Before I could push further, Carl's voice cut through the room like a knife.

"Amanda."

She jumped again.

Carl stalked across the room towards us, his courteous smile perfectly applied. "Could you just step outside for a second? I need you to check on the luncheon preparations."

Amanda bobbed her head quickly, poise clicking back into place as she gave me a fleeting glance and disappeared beyond the doors.

I pivoted toward Carl, my jaws clenched.

"Are we ready to begin?" he asked smoothly, his cold gaze settling on me.

I plastered a smile on my face, but inside I was seething. Now, at least, I could see. Amanda wasn't just some girl Carl cared about. She was some girl he controlled.

And whatever the hell he was hiding-it wasn't good.

Hours later, in my suite, I stood by the window, staring out, the phone buzzing on the table behind me. I didn't turn around. I already knew who it was.

I picked up the call and lifted it to my ear. "Thomas?"

"Got something," Thomas said, his voice razor-sharp. "And you're not going to like it."

"Tell me," I said, my voice low.

"The woman you know as Amanda Dawson? She's not Amanda Dawson."

My blood drained from my face. "What?”

“Amanda, in fact, is very real-but she's dead. The real Amanda Dawson died two years ago in Switzerland. Car accident. The report's solid. What's strange is that her death was buried-no public record of it anywhere."

My pulse pounded in my ears. "Then who is the woman with Carl?”

"I don't know. But someone paid a hell of a lot of money to buy Amanda Dawson's identity. And it gets worse. There's no record of her coming to London from Switzerland—but there is a record of her arriving here from New York. With Carl Martins."

Carl.

The pieces clicked into place.

Amanda Dawson was dead.

But someone—Carl—brought a woman wearing her name here.

And that woman… that woman looked exactly like Olivia.

My Olivia.

I collapsed in the nearest chair, as my chest tightened up in pain. This really had to be her, alive after all this time entombed in some sort of Carl-made nightmare.

Then Thomas's voice cut in. "Whatever's going on here, Mr. Easton, it's huge. People don't bury an identity for nothing."

"Keep digging," I said, cold, steady resolve underlying the words. "I want to know whatever there is. I don't care what it will take.

"Yes, sir."

The line went dead.

I sat there for a long moment staring at the phone in my hand, my heart racing.

She was alive. I knew it.

And now I was going to unmask Carl for what he'd done. I was going to bring Olivia back-no matter what it cost.

\---

I rose to my feet, the determination in my chest turning to steel.

Carl Martins had secrets.

And one of them was Amanda.

But if Amanda Dawson was dead-then who the hell was the woman going around wearing her name?