Chapter 8 - The Ghosts of Mozart Street
Two weeks passed with a speed and peace I had never known existed.
Troy Reinholdt had vanished from my life as completely as if he had never existed. According to the quiet reports that crossed Rowan’s desk—briefing notes delivered with morning coffee—Troy had packed his camera gear into his beat-up sedan and relocated to Cincinnati, driven out of Chicago by a mountain of sudden commercial debt, broken leases, and the terrifying realization that he had crossed paths with a force he could neither bully nor control.
My new office on the twentieth floor became my sanctuary.
Working alongside Rowan wasn't the terrifying ordeal I had imagined during my three years in operations. It was a masterclass in precision, respect, and quiet partnership. He listened to my logistical assessments, valued my insights, and treated me not as an employee to be managed, but as an equal partner in building an empire.
Yet, healing wasn't a straight line.
On a rainy Thursday evening, while Rowan was downstairs in a board meeting with municipal stakeholders, I stayed late reviewing a fresh batch of supply chain manifests.
The wind howled against the floor-to-ceiling windows, rattling the glass in a way that suddenly echoed the sound of a fist slamming against a cheap bathroom door.
My hands began to tremble.
The pen slipped from my fingers, rolling across the mahogany desk. I wrapped my arms around myself, closing my eyes as the phantom sensation of a heavy hand around my wrist flared up, making my skin burn.
You're safe, I told myself, repeating the words like a mantra. He's gone.
"Piper."
The deep, familiar voice cut through the shadows of the office.
I opened my eyes. Rowan stood in the doorway, his suit jacket removed, his tie loosened at the collar. He had finished his meeting early. He took one look at my pale face, the rigid set of my shoulders, and the way I was rubbing my wrist, and he closed the distance between us in three long strides.
He didn't ask what was wrong. He already knew.
Rowan knelt beside my chair, his large, warm hand gently covering my trembling fingers where they clutched my arm.
"He’s in Ohio, Piper," Rowan said softly, his voice a low, anchoring rumble that seemed to pull me back from the edge of the panic attack. "He has no phone number for you, no address, and no leverage. He doesn't exist anymore."
"I know," I whispered, a single tear escaping and tracking down my cheek. "It’s just... sometimes the muscle memory takes longer to fade than the relationship."
Rowan didn't pull away. Instead, his thumb swept across my skin, tracing the faint, fading outline of where the bruise used to be.
"Then let me help you rewrite the memory," he murmured.
May you like
He stood up, pulling me gently to my feet by both hands.
"Come with me."
