“Don’t forget me,” she said.
Twenty-two years went by.
Ethan Cole woke up at 6 a.m. in a glass-walled penthouse overlooking downtown Houston—a place worth more than most people would earn in a lifetime.
The sunrise painted the skyline gold.
He didn’t notice.
He rarely ever did.
A high-end Italian espresso machine hummed as it filled his cup. His closet was lined with dozens of custom suits.
He chose one without thinking.
The apartment was quiet.
Always quiet.
No photos.
No memories.
No signs of a real life.
It looked luxurious.
But it felt hollow.
His phone buzzed.
“Board meeting at 9,” his assistant said.
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