Chapter 331

Serena’s POV

I stood there for a moment, stunned, half-convinced the child was simply saying something sweet and nonsensical—as children often did.

I forced a gentle smile. "Then your mommy must be very beautiful," I said softly. "I hope I’ll get to meet her someday."

Vivian’s expression changed.

Her small shoulders drooped, and the brightness in her eyes dimmed, as if someone had quietly turned down a light.

"My mommy’s not home," she said. Not dramatic. Not tearful. Just honest.

"She’s gone."

The word sat heavily between us.

"Daddy says she’s missing," Vivian continued, her voice calm in that unsettling way only children could manage. "He’s been looking for her for a really long time. But he still can’t find her."

Something twisted sharply in my chest, catching me completely off guard. I didn’t know this child. And yet her quiet sadness settled into me as if it belonged there.

Before I could say anything, Rancy reached out.

Her little fingers wrapped around Vivian’s hand in a clumsy but earnest grip.

"It’s okay," Rancy said seriously. "Mommy always comes back."

She nodded to herself, as if stating a simple, unbreakable truth. Then her face brightened.

"You can borrow my mommy for now!"

I bit my lip, warmth spreading through my chest despite the ache tightening beneath it.

Vivian blinked, clearly caught off guard.

Slowly, the corners of her mouth lifted—not quite a smile, but close.

"Thank you," she said softly.

"Miss Vivian, it’s time to go."

A man in a crisp, tailored suit stepped forward from behind her. He didn’t look like a father rushing home after work. More like a driver—or a guardian accustomed to keeping his distance.

Rancy squeezed Vivian’s hand one last time before letting go.

"Tomorrow," she said firmly. "You come tomorrow."

She waved with both hands until Vivian was guided into the waiting car and it pulled away from the curb.

"I’m impressed," I said as we walked toward our own car. "First day, and you already made a friend."

Rancy puffed up with pride, skipping beside me.

"I know her," she said seriously. "She’s quiet. But she likes me."

"She does?"

Rancy nodded. "She doesn’t play with other kids. Just me."

Then she added, pleased, "She says I’m cute."

I laughed softly. "Well, she’s not wrong."

The entire drive home, Rancy chattered happily—about snacks, about sitting next to Vivian, about how Vivian held her hand during nap time. I listened, smiling, but my thoughts kept drifting back to that small, solemn face.

When we arrived at Cedric’s estate, dinner was already waiting. Cedric himself was nowhere to be seen—no doubt still sulking after our earlier argument.

"Go wash your hands," I told Rancy, helping her out of her coat. "You can eat while Mommy finishes a little work."

"Okay!"

She threw her arms around my neck and pressed a noisy kiss to my cheek.

"Don’t be long," she reminded me earnestly. "Story time."

"I promise," I said, holding her close. "I wouldn’t miss it."

After she disappeared down the hall with the housekeeper, I headed for the guest study Cedric had assigned me.

The room was immaculate. Elegant. And utterly impersonal.

Cedric insisted we had once shared this house—this life. And yet there was no trace of me anywhere. No photographs. No keepsakes. No evidence that I had ever belonged.

I sat down at the desk and opened my laptop.

An email from Maya, head of LUXE’s design department, stared back at me—drowning in apologies and requests for another meeting.

"Now you’re sorry?" I muttered, deleting it without hesitation.

My phone rang. Sally.

Several studios had already reached out, eager to replace LUXE.

"Vet everything," I told her. "Portfolios. Finances. Reputations. I won’t waste time on amateurs."

After the call ended, something Maya had said earlier came back to me—about LUXE’s original founder being falsely accused years ago.

Curious despite myself, I searched.

Nothing.

No interviews. No archived work. No trace at all.

"Erased," I murmured. "Completely."

I closed the browser, shaking my head. "Not my problem anymore."

Still, the absence lingered like an unfinished thought.

An hour later, a soft knock broke my concentration.

"Mommy?"

Rancy stood in the doorway in her pajamas. "Big hand eight. Little hand seven."

She smiled proudly. "Story."

I glanced at the clock—and laughed. "You’re right. I promised."

That night, after the story and the goodnight kisses, I lingered by Rancy’s bed.

Vivian’s face drifted back into my thoughts.

"Mommy?" Rancy murmured sleepily.

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"Can Vivian come play?" she asked. "She is sad. But she smiles with me."

I brushed her hair back gently. "Maybe. We’ll see."

"Okay..."

Watching my daughter’s peaceful face, I felt a pang of empathy for Vivian and the absent mother she so desperately missed. I knew what it was like to grow up with pieces missing—though in my case, it was memories rather than people.

The next morning, I woke to the persistent buzzing of my phone. Squinting at the screen through sleep-blurred eyes, I saw another email from Maya. This woman just wouldn’t quit.

"Ms. Quinn," it began formally, "I understand your reluctance to reconsider our partnership, but before you make your final decision, Mr. Ryan Blackwood himself has requested to speak with you directly. As CEO of Blackwood Enterprises, his interest in your work represents an unprecedented opportunity. Please call this number at your earliest convenience."

I snorted, tossing the phone aside. The nerve of these people—first they bail on me without explanation, now they’re trying to dangle their CEO like some prize carrot? I had better things to do than chase after corporate validation.

But as I showered and dressed, a nagging curiosity took hold. Blackwood Enterprises wasn’t just any company—it was an empire with tentacles in everything from real estate to cutting-edge technology. Their interest could catapult Elegant Realm into entirely new markets.

"This is strictly business," I told my reflection as I applied a touch of lipstick. "Nothing more."

After dropping Rancy at school (with an extra long hug when I spotted Vivian across the playground), I sat in my car and stared at the number Maya had provided. My finger hovered over the call button for several seconds before I finally pressed it.

The phone rang exactly twice before a deep, resonant voice answered. "Ryan Blackwood speaking."

Something about his voice—its cadence, its timber—sent an inexplicable shiver down my spine.

"This is Serena Lancaster," I said, keeping my tone strictly professional. "I understand you wanted to speak with me regarding a potential collaboration."

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end, followed by several seconds of silence. I was about to check if the call had dropped when he finally spoke again.

"Serena." Just my name, spoken with such... intensity. The hair on my arms stood on end.

"Yes, that’s me," I replied, slightly unnerved. "I received an email suggesting you wanted to discuss business opportunities."

"Your voice..." he began, then cleared his throat. "Forgive me. Yes, business. Of course."

What followed was the most generous offer I’d ever received—exclusive distribution rights for Elegant Realm throughout North America, a featured showcase at Blackwood’s annual charity gala, and financial backing that would make our London expansion virtually risk-free. All he asked in return was the right of first refusal on my newest designs.

It was too good to be true. And in my experience, that usually meant it was.

"Why?" I asked bluntly. "Why such interest in my studio? We’re successful, yes, but hardly in Blackwood’s league."

There was another pause, longer this time. "Your aesthetic..." he finally said, his voice strangely strained. "It reminds me of someone I once knew."

"I see." That explained nothing. "Well, Mr. Blackwood, your offer is certainly generous, but I’ll need time to consider it. This isn’t a decision I can make on the spot."

"Of course," he replied quickly. "Take all the time you need. But may I ask you something personal, Ms. Quinn?"

Warning bells rang in my head. "That depends on the question."

"It’s just—" he hesitated, then continued in a rush, "—your name is Serena. That’s... that’s my wife’s name too. My missing wife. And your voice sounds remarkably similar to hers."

My professional demeanor instantly evaporated. Was this some kind of sick joke? A wealthy businessman using a business call to hit on me with the lamest pickup line imaginable?

"Mr. Blackwood," I said coldly, "I appreciate the business offer, but I should inform you that I’m married. If your interest extends beyond professional boundaries, I’m afraid I’ll have to decline regardless of the terms."

"No, wait—that’s not what I—"

But I’d already ended the call, my heart pounding with indignation. The absolute audacity of some men. Even ones worth billions.