The same slight scar above his eyebrow.
The same habit of clenching his jaw whenever he was confused.
I whispered the name I hadn’t spoken in twenty years.
“Alex?”
His face changed.
Completely.
The cold billionaire disappeared.
His lips parted.
Nobody spoke.
Then he whispered:
“Who told you that name?”
I started crying.
And that was all the confirmation I needed.
Twenty years earlier, I had been nineteen.
Alexander had been twenty.
We were young, broke, reckless, and completely convinced that love could solve anything.
His father owned a small construction company.
My mother cleaned houses for wealthy families.
We had no money.
But we had plans.
We were supposed to leave Chicago together.
We had everything arranged.
A cheap apartment.
Two bus tickets.
A future we thought belonged to us.
Then, the night before we were supposed to leave, Alexander called me.
His voice was strange.
He told me not to come outside.
