“Your remarks are in two minutes, Mr. Wolfe,” Thomas reminded him, stepping closer as the applause around them began to fade. “The board is expecting you to announce the pediatric wing.”

Roman Wolfe huffed, he wanted the night to be over before it started.

The week had been a disaster. The Meridian acquisition was bleeding support on the board, two investors had threatened to pull out by Friday, and his chief financial officer had used the word catastrophic in a way that was not hyperbole. The annual Wolfe Foundation gala was the last thing he had time for, but the board insisted that optics mattered and his mom, Vivian, had reminded him that Isabella would have expected him to show up.

Isabella…..

Three years after losing her, Roman had perfected the art of moving through the world without feeling it. He was the ruthless billionaire who did not allow emotions to interfere with business. He signed condolences with a fountain pen and never missed a quarterly call. He survived on routine.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said into the microphone, standing at the center of the Grand Regency ballroom. Crystal chandeliers threw light across marble floors, and three hundred guests in black tie watched him with the kind of attention that was bought and paid for. “Thanks to your generosity, the Wolfe Foundation will fund a new pediatric wing at Mercy General.”

Applause swelled, and Roman smiled on cue. It never reached his eyes.

He scanned the crowd out of habit. Assess, catalog, control. That was when he saw her, and his lungs forgot to function.

She was near the east bar, crouched with a camera raised to her eye, framing a shot of two elderly donors. Dark hair pulled back in a loose twist. She was wearing a black dress. No jewelry except a thin silver chain. She moved through the crowd like she belonged there and did not care if she did.

Roman’s hand tightened around the podium.

For three seconds, his brain refused to process what his eyes were telling him.

Exhaustion played tricks. Grief played worse ones. He had spent the first year after the storm, seeing Isabella in airports, in coffee shops, in the back of black cars that never stopped. He had learned to dismiss it.

But the more he observed her, the harder it became to ignore the impossible resemblance. It was not simply her appearance. It was the way she smiled at guests, polite and distant in a way that said she was comfortable being alone in a room full of people. It was the way she tilted her head while adjusting her camera settings. It was the way she absentmindedly brushed a strand of hair behind her ear when concentrating. And most specifically, her habit of chewing her left inner cheek. That was Isabella’s signature style.

She looked at his direction twice…..or maybe thrice, and found him staring at her, he realized that but couldn't look away.

“Mr. Wolfe?” Thomas murmured at his shoulder. “Sir?”

Roman set the microphone back in its stand. “We will continue the announcement after the auction,” he announced, his tone clipped. Confused murmurs rose from the audience, but he was already stepping down from the stage. He was not in a condition to talk to anyone anymore.

He moved through the ballroom without excusing himself. His pulse was uneven, and a cold weight had settled behind his ribs. Several guests tried to stop him to say their greetings. He ignored all of them.

His mother, Vivian, was near the front, speaking with the mayor’s wife. She saw his expression and her own smile faltered.

“Roman,” she called out, concern threading through her voice. “What is wrong?”

He did not answer. He could not. His attention was fixed on the photographer who had just straightened and turned toward the string quartet. The light caught her profile, and the air left his lungs.

It was the same line of her jaw. The same curve of her mouth. The same hazel eyes that had been flecked with green when she was amused.

Isabella was dead……

The Coast Guard had searched for nine days. The yacht had been recovered in pieces. He had buried an empty casket.

Yet his body moved toward her like his soul recognized her right away.

The photographer sensed him and turned, camera lowering, and her eyes met his. She offered him a polite, professional smile.

“Sorry,” she was startled, taking a small step back. “Did you need a photo? I’m covering the event for City Arts, but if the Foundation needs something specific—”

“Who are you?” Roman interrupted, his voice mixed with unnamed emotions. The question came out rougher, scraped raw from somewhere he kept locked down.

She blinked, and a faint crease appeared between her brows. “Maya,” she replied, shifting her camera strap higher on her shoulder. The movement was so familiar that Roman’s throat closed. “Maya Carter….. Your secretary hired me for the coverage. Aren't you Roman Wolfe?” She gestured at him with a frown.

“Maya,” he repeated in a whisper. That name was wrong for this face.

Vivian appeared at his side then. “Roman,” she said quietly, her hand touching his arm. “You left the stage. People are—”

But then she stopped.

Maya had turned toward the sound of Vivian’s voice, and for the first time, his mother saw her face.

The color drained from Vivian’s cheeks, her body went cold. Both mother and son were light struck now, looking frozen in time.

May looked around nervously, a waiter passed between them with a tray of champagne. She reached for a glass, trying to do something with her hands and her fingers brushed the stem. She missed it and the glass slipped, hit the marble, and shattered.

“Oh god, I’m sorry,” she exclaimed instantly, crouching to pick up the larger pieces. She looked up at Roman, embarrassed and flushed. “I’m so clumsy sometimes. I swear I wasn’t raised in a barn.”

Roman went completely still. If there were any doubts left in his mind, this sentence drowned them all! He wasn't hallucinating anymore!

He had not heard that phrase in three years. Isabella said it every time she knocked over a glass, every time she burned dinner trying to learn how to cook for him. “I swear I wasn’t raised in a barn.” It was her mother’s saying. Then it was hers.

“Ms. Carter,” Vivian managed to say. Her voice was thin.

Maya stood, holding the broken stem, and offered Vivian a confused smile. “I’m sorry about the glass. I’ll—”

She did not finish. She was looking at Vivian’s face.

Roman followed his mother’s gaze. Vivian was staring at Maya like she was seeing a ghost. Her lips parted, and her hand came up to her throat. She took a step back, and then another, as if the floor had tilted under her.

“Mother,” Roman said sharply.

Vivian did not look at him. She could not look away from Maya. Her breathing had turned shallow, and her eyes were wide with something that was not a surprise. It was panic. Genuine, unmistakable panic.

Maya frowned. “Are you alright?” she asked Vivian standing up.

Vivian’s lips moved, but no sound came out at first. Then she whispered, “That’s…..impossible.”

The Warning

“Oh my god, I am never working another gala again!” Maya shouted as she shoved her apartment door shut with her hip. Her camera bag hit the floor before she even had her keys out of the lock. “I drop one glass in a room full of people who wipe their mouths with hundred-dollar napkins and suddenly I’m a public health hazard. Roman Wolfe and his mom looked at me like I grew a second head!”

She wrenched the pins from her hair and threw them onto the coffee table. They clattered and scattered across the wood. The humiliation was still hot under her skin. She could hear the glass shattering again, sharp and obscene against the polite murmur of the ballroom.

She could see Roman Wolfe going completely still, his eyes fixed on her with an intensity that had made her stomach lurch. She remembered the way his mom said “impossible,” like she found her long lost twin daughter.

Roman had not been annoyed the way clients got when a server spilled wine. He had not been amused, either. His face had drained of color and his jaw had locked like he was holding back a word he refused to say.

Maya paced to the kitchen and yanked open the fridge, then closed it without taking anything out. “He probably thinks management hired me out of the bargain bin,” she spat, her voice bouncing off the cabinets. “He was stunned that I could form a complete sentence after I broke his stupid glass.”

It hadn’t been just him. That was the part that crawled under her skin and stayed there.

Even before the crystal hit the marble, she had felt the shift in the environment. A woman in a red gown had gasped and leaned into her husband, whispering behind her hand while her eyes stayed locked on Maya. Two men near the bar had stopped talking and turned to stare, their expressions caught somewhere between shock and disbelief. They had looked at her, then at each other, then back at her again.

Maya had forced herself to lift her camera. She had told the part of her brain that handled self-preservation that they were probably calculating the cost of the stemware.

She had assumed they were wondering why the Foundation had wasted budget on a photographer who made scenes instead of capturing them. Every photo she took for the rest of the night had felt like she was proving she belonged there.

And Roman Wolfe had watched her the entire time.

Not with the bored appraisal of a man who owned the room. His attention had been absolute, like he was trying to place her and the answer kept slipping out of reach.

“He stared like I was going to set the curtains on fire,” she growled, yanking her blazer off and tossing it over a chair. “Like he couldn’t believe they let me past the front door.”

But the explanation didn’t fit, and the mismatch made her angrier.

It wasn't judgement. Judgment should be like a turned shoulder and a dismissive glance. But Roman’s face had gone white. His hands had curled into fists at his sides. For a moment Maya had been certain he was going to cross the floor and say something to her, and the idea had sent panic skittering down her spine.

She dropped onto the couch and pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. The apartment was too quiet.

“He was a billionaire. Billionaires probably stared at anyone who disrupted their events.” She whispered to herself.

The thought didn’t help though. She drifted to sleep in the same position with a heavy feeling that refused to go away, and that made her unable to put a finger on.

************************************************

Her phone buzzed on the coffee table at 7:12 the next morning. Maya jerked awake on the couch, her neck stiff and her mouth dry. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep out here. The caller ID read Wolfe Holdings.

She stared at it for three seconds, her heart kicking hard against her ribs, before she answered. “Maya Carter,” her voice rough from sleep and still edged with the anger from last night.

“Miss Carter,” a man replied. His tone was polished and carefully neutral. “This is Thomas Alden, Mr. Wolfe’s assistant. Mr. Wolfe would like to request a private meeting with you regarding your work at the gala. Are you available this evening?”

Maya sat up and pushed her hair out of her face. “My work was delivered to the Foundation last night,” she said. “If there’s an issue with the invoice, you can contact my agent.”

“There is no issue with the invoice,” Thomas answered smoothly. “Mr. Wolfe wishes to discuss a separate matter. He believes it would be beneficial for you to hear him out.”

A cold weight settled in her stomach. “I’m not interested,” she stated, and the defensiveness in her tone made her jaw clench. “Whatever issue Mr. Wolfe has, I want no involvement in it.”

“Miss Carter,” Thomas began, his voice shifting into something placating. “Mr. Wolfe can be very persuasive when—”

“No,” Maya interrupted. She stood up because the adrenaline under her skin demanded movement. “Tell him I’m not available. Not tonight. Not in the future. Thank you!”

She ended the call before he could respond. Her breathing was too fast and her palms were damp. She hated being cornered, and she hated men who thought “no” was the opening to a negotiation.

She forced herself through the day. She edited photos from a different job. She answered emails. She confirmed a shoot for next Tuesday. But her concentration kept sliding back to the gala. She kept seeing Roman’s face when she apologized for the glass. For a second he had looked like a man who had seen something he thought was buried.

By seven, she was done pretending she could focus on work. She picked up pad thai on the way home and climbed the three flights to her apartment, the bag crinkling in her grip. She unlocked the door, stepped inside, and stopped.

A business card lay on the floor just past the threshold.

She squinted her brows with a thought. She didn’t take clients who showed up uninvited. She bent down and picked it up, ready to tear it in half.

The card was thick, brown-colored, embossed with Roman Wolfe, CEO, Wolfe Holdings in stark black letters. No phone was mentioned on it and no email at all, which was weird.

Maya flipped it over to throw it away, and her breath caught.

Messy handwriting covered the back of it. Slanted, rushed, pressed hard enough to indent the paper. She was not aware of this writing, nor were there any introductions or salutations.

She read the words once. Then again….. Then a third time, because her brain refused to accept them.

She looked at her locked door right away to see a figure or something. It was empty till the end of the hallway. Whoever left it had come and gone without a sound.

Her pulse slammed against her ribs. She had told Roman’s assistant “no” quite clearly. She had made it clear that she wanted no involvement. And now someone knew where she lived.

Maya’s mouth went dry. She turned the card over in her hand, and the words blurred before sharpening into focus.

The message read, "Stay away from Roman Wolfe if you value your future.”

Chapter Three – The Photograph

Roman stared at the ceiling of his penthouse while the clock on his nightstand turned 3:17 to 3:18. The city lights cut across his floor in thin strips, and his hands were clasped behind his head like he could hold his thoughts still. He could not.

Maya Carter’s face kept sliding over Isabella’s. The gala played in pieces behind his eyes. The glass breaking. The way Maya had tucked her hair behind her ear before she lifted her camera. The sharp edge in her voice when she said I wasn’t raised in a barn.

It was the same cadence. The same lift at the end of the sentence.

He threw the covers off and crossed to the bar. He poured two fingers of scotch and did not drink it. What unsettled him as much as Maya’s resemblance was his mother. Vivian had walked out of the gala without a word to him. She had ignored his calls for two days. He still remembered her face when he finally caught her in her office at the Foundation, she had gone white when he said the photographer’s name.

“Do not say her name in this house,” Vivian had hissed, her knuckles tight around a porcelain cup. The coffee inside sloshed over the rim and stained the papers on her desk. “Do you understand me, Roman? She is gone! You need to understand it and move on with your life. Dead people don't come back. Whoever that lookalike is, do not bring her into this.”

“Into what?” he had demanded, stepping closer. “What's going on? What are you not telling me?”

But Vivian had left without answering, and the door had shut hard enough to rattle the frame.

He released a sigh. Her reaction fed the suspicion that had been growing in his chest since the gala. He had spent three years learning how to live around the absence of Isabella. He had accepted the Coast Guard reports. He had signed the paperwork. Now his mother was acting like Maya’s existence threatened something.

What was she a threat for? And why was she a threat in the first place?

Roman was done accepting.

He sent Thomas to Maya first. When that failed, he had his legal team send a formal request through her agent. When that was ignored, he called her himself from a number she would not recognize.

“I’m not meeting you in your office,” Maya said as soon as he identified himself. Her voice was sharp and guarded. “And I’m not meeting you anywhere private.”

“Choose the place,” Roman replied instantly. He kept his tone even, but his grip on the phone was hard enough to ache. “Make it public. Make it crowded. I don’t care.”

She heaved a sigh, then named a café on 8th Avenue at 2:00 p.m. The lunch crowd would be thinning, but the tables would still be full. She wanted people around.

Roman understood the choice. He no longer cared how it looked.

Maya walked in at 2:10. She wore a black leather jacket and her mouth was a flat line. She did not sit when she reached his table. She stood with her arms crossed and her weight shifted back, ready to leave.

“Say what you need to say,” she ordered. “I have a shoot at four.”

Roman did not answer right away. He looked at her, and the resemblance hit him again with physical force. It was the shape of her eyes. It was the faint scar through her left eyebrow, the one Isabella had gotten when she was twelve and fell off her bike on Bedford Avenue. It was the way Maya tilted her head when she was angry, like she was measuring him.

He reached into his briefcase and took out a framed photograph. He set it on the table and slid it toward her.

Maya’s expression changed immediately. The anger dropped out of her face. She lowered herself into the chair slowly without speaking and her eyes locked on the image. Her fingers curled around the edge of the table until her knuckles went white.

The woman in the photograph was on a sailboat, laughing, her hair tangled by the wind. She wore a white sundress and a silver bracelet on her right wrist. Her smile was wide and unguarded.

She was identical to Maya…..no! She was a spitting image of Maya!

“That was my wife,” Roman uttered in a hushed voice. “Her name was Isabella. She disappeared three years ago during a storm off Montauk. The Coast Guard searched for nine days……. They never recovered her.”

Maya finally lifted her gaze. Her face had gone bloodless. “What,” she whispered, then stopped. She swallowed. “What are you trying to say?”

“I’m saying you look like her,” Roman replied with heavy eyes. “You move like her. You have her mannerisms. My mother saw you and reacted like she’d seen someone she buried.”

Maya stood so fast her chair scraped against the tile. A man at the next table looked up from his laptop. “You think I’m her,” she accused, and her voice rose enough that the barista glanced over. “You lost your wife and now you’re seeing things. I understand that you're grieving. But you’re looking for similarities where none exist because you can’t accept that she’s gone.”

“That’s not what this is,” Roman insisted in a soft tone. He stood too, keeping the table between them. “I know the difference between grief and what’s in front of me.”

“No, you don’t,” Maya shot back. Her eyes were bright, and her breathing had turned quick and shallow. “You’re projecting your loss onto a stranger. I'm sorry that you lost your wife okay! I'm sorry for your loss. I don’t know who she was, but I’m not her, and that's a fact! I’ve never been on a sailboat in my life.”

She grabbed her bag from the back of the chair. “Stay away from me,” she ordered, and turned toward the door.

Roman let her go. He knew he had pushed hard enough for one day. He watched her shove through the café door and step out onto the sidewalk.

Her jacket sleeve rode up when she reached for the handle.

On her right wrist was a delicate silver bracelet, twisted into a rope design with a small sapphire set into the clasp.

Roman stopped breathing.

He had designed that bracelet himself. He had given it to Isabella on their second anniversary. It had been custom made by a jeweler in Florence. There was only one in the world.

Maya walked away down 8th Avenue, and Roman stood in the middle of the café with the framed photograph still on the table between them….and his heart at his feet in pieces.

She was wearing Isabella’s bracelet.