"This time, I wouldn’t let her disappear. Even if I had to rewrite fate myself."

BLURB

A old friend. A bourbon. And a memory that won’t let him rest.
She disappeared.
But Kade isn’t the kind of man to leave puzzles unsolved—especially not the kind with eyes that burn like truth.
And dreams?
They’re starting to look a little too real. 
And forgetting isn’t an option anymore.

➤ BETWEEN DREAMS AND DRINK: A KNIGHTLY SPECIAL
8:52 PM — The Cloister Café, Beacon Hill

Eventually, the scent of bourbon reasserted itself on my senses—a heady reminder that life outside this haze persisted.
Then Ben Knightly entered the picture.
His shadow stretched across the booth like a hostile takeover in motion.

He loomed over the me, smirking with his trademark blend of practical cruelty and misplaced affection like he’d caught me praying to the patron saint of bad decisions.
Given my track record, it wasn’t a bad guess.

“Are you pondering the mysteries of this stained upholstery,” he drawled lazily, “or are you having a spiritual awakening?”

I didn't bother lifting my gaze from what remained of my drink.
The booth’s cracked leather beneath my hand had seen better days—not unlike myself.

“Depends,” I replied dryly. “You offering spiritual guidance?”

Ben slid onto the seat across from me, depositing a glass filled with amber conviction—the kind of drink that could start wars or mend broken halves depending on dosage.

“Nah,” he said flippantly. “Thought you might prefer booze or maybe an exorcism.”

“I’m fine.”

His incredulous snort said otherwise. Ben’s expressions had always teetered between judgmental sarcasm and begrudging camaraderie.

“Ah yes,” he said mockingly. “The universal lie of emotionally unavailable men everywhere.”

Ignoring him, I traced circles onto the table with my thumb—staring through worn wood polished smooth by restless hands before mine.

“She had these eyes,” I murmured finally—half-confession, half-desperation—the truth dragging itself out with an unfamiliar weight. “The kind that make you forget how to lie to yourself.”

 Ben's smirk shifted from amused to intrigued, a rare transition. His attention spans generally operated in extremes: fleeting like a TikTok scroll or laser-focused on multimillion-dollar takeover bids.

“Well, damn. Now I’m invested. What happened?”

“She sat down. Pretended to be my fiancée. Saved me from a fake pregnancy ambush. Then vanished.”

He let out a low whistle. “That’s one hell of a meet-cute.”

I looked away, my lips twitching slightly—not from amusement.
“It wasn’t cute,” I muttered, my voice harsher than intended. “It felt... familiar. Like I’d seen her before.”

“Have you?” Ben asked, curiosity flashing in his sharp eyes.

“Not in real life.” I hesitated as the café playlist switched to jazz, the melancholic notes amplifying the drama that hung in the air.

“She’s been in my dreams. Since I was a kid.”

Ben raised an eyebrow but said nothing, sipping his drink slowly as though waiting for the punchline. The ice cubes clinked in his glass like tiny maracas of judgment.

“It’s always the same—a haze of smoke, blaring sirens, and a little girl standing just out of reach,” I continued, twisting my hand as though trying to shake off phantom flames.
“Her eyes are unmistakable, even though her face is never fully clear.
But today? For a split second, I saw her—really saw her.”

 Ben didn’t flinch. Instead, he set his glass down with a deliberate click, as if rendering judgment on my tangled web of logic. “Almost doesn’t mean certainty, Kade.”

“No,” I conceded. “But it’s enough.”

“So, what are you going to do?” he asked, his tone laced with faux innocence—the kind that always preceded him calling me out.

I offered him a practiced smirk—not my best work, but serviceable under the circumstances.
“What any irrational, slightly obsessive man with too much money and time would do.”

“Ah.” He grinned knowingly. “Accidentally bump into her on purpose?”

I lifted my glass slightly in salute, the bourbon gleaming like a co-conspirator in the dim light. “Exactly.”

He arched an eyebrow and poured himself another round, the amber liquid cascading deliberately as though he wanted me to grasp how absurd I sounded. “So the grand plan is stalking your dream girl into reality? Casual.”

I shrugged with forced nonchalance, though my shoulders felt tense. “Worked for Orpheus.”

A snort escaped him as he leaned back in his seat, eyes sharp with ridicule. “He lost her. Twice.”

“Semantics.” I retorted, idly flicking a coaster between my fingers.

He gripped his glass; palm pressed against its condensation like he needed the chill to keep himself grounded. “You do realize this whole thing is borderline insane?”

“Not the craziest thing I’ve done,” I replied breezily.

Ben sighed, more theatrical than sincere. “You know most people go to therapy after strangers unlock their childhood trauma. You? You turn into Sherlock Holmes with a crush.”

“She isn’t a stranger,” I said softly. “Not to my body.”

“Oh God,” he groaned, grabbing a napkin and mashing it into his palm as though preparing himself. “Is this going to turn into some mystical past-lives nonsense? Because if you start talking about twin flames or karmic reconnection, I’m calling your mother—and an exorcist.”

“I’m not joking, Ben.” I shot back.

“Neither am I,” he said pointedly. “I keep your mom on speed dial for precisely this level of lunacy.”

I rubbed a hand over my jaw, frustration layering my tone like end-of-day stubble. “There’s something about her—that feeling of knowing someone in ways you can’t explain or even remember.”

Ben leaned forward on his elbows, all traces of humor falling away.
His voice dropped to something unusually sincere. “Let’s unpack this for a second. You’re the most logic-driven, calculated bastard I know. You read financial disclosures for fun and send thank-you notes after firing people. And now you’re spiraling into cosmic poetry over a café run-in?”

I managed a low laugh despite myself. “Yeah. It’s unsettling for everyone involved.”

Ben swirled his drink absentmindedly, watching the liquid cling to glass instead of meeting my gaze.
When he finally spoke again, his tone was softer but heavier with meaning. “Do you think you’ve dreamed of her because she was someone you knew—or because she’s someone you’ve always needed?”

The question knocked something loose inside me—a burden that lingered unspoken but now sat painfully exposed in the silence between us. “I don’t know,” I admitted quietly. The words tasted bitter.

Ben nodded with a knowing air, as if he had anticipated my response.
With two fingers, he nudged my neglected drink toward me, the ice rattling like some unspoken toast to my recklessness. “Well, drink up. If you’re going to start chasing ghosts, you’ll need something stronger than unresolved trauma and killer cheekbones.”

✦✦✦

➤ ASHES OF MEMORY
2:58 AM — Penthouse suit, Sterling Hotel Boston

Somewhere in that fragile space between midnight and madness, sleep finally claimed me.

The dream returned.

This time, sharper.
Smoke swirled, thick and choking.
Screams—agonized yet eerily soundless.
And then, through the choking haze, a little girl emerged.
She turned slowly, clutching something close to her chest—a wreath, charred and wilting at the edges.

Her lips moved, but no sound reached me.
Still, her face—brief yet unmistakable—cut through the fog of memory like a sliver of glass.
She wasn’t the woman from the café… not entirely.
But close enough to unsettle something deep and raw within me.

*******

I woke with my pulse pounding against my ribs, the sheets tangled in a suffocating mess around my legs.
The faint scent of vanilla clung to the air—an almost spectral trace, like a memory trying to grow wings.
And one thought rang through my mind, louder than sleep or logic or fear:

Find her.

This time, I wouldn’t let her disappear.

And next time? I’d make damn sure our paths collided again.

Even if I had to rewrite fate myself.