2 days later.

ARIA’s POV

Laura and I make our way into the reception area of Veriton Dynamics.

I hear a lot of hushed whispers as we walk in. I’m used to it by now but I can’t help but feel something in the pit of my stomach.

It wasn’t nerves—I don’t get those anymore. Not after sold-out premieres, international red carpets, and dodging paparazzi through three continents.

No, this wasn’t nerves.

This was something colder. Older. A memory that knew how to find my throat and squeeze.

I shouldn’t have come.

But I did.

The receptionist glanced up as my name triggered a flicker of recognition and a twinkle in her eyes.

She recognizes me.

Aria Monroe, America’s sweetheart, box office phenomenon, fashion icon. And here, I am auditioning to be the brand ambassador for Veriton Dynamics rebranding campaign.

“Aria Monroe, confirmed,” she said politely with a genuine smile.

“Take the elevator to the 19th floor. They’re expecting you.”

Expecting me. I doubted that. Not all of them, anyway.

Liam would be there. I’ve known that since the moment I read that article 2 days ago. I mean, who acquires a company, aim at rebranding it and doesn’t show up for the audition of the new brand ambassador.

The new face of the company.

That’s not him. He’ll be there.

“Will he recognize me?”. I can’t help but wonder to myself.

He’d disappeared from my life 5 years ago without even a whisper of goodbye.

According to the news report, the youngest grandson of (his grandfather’s name) was kidnapped as a kid many years ago. Then, five years ago, he returned—and took the business world by storm.

Silent, commanding, and surgically efficient.

Everyone already assumes he will be the next heir to the Prescott’s fortune.

Only a few people knew what had happened to him during those years he was missing.

Only he knew the truth about me.

I smoothed the front of my (slate-gray silk dress )as the elevator doors opened and Laura sees me off.

“Okay. You’ve rehearsed, you’re ready, and you’re undeniable.Walk in like you already booked it.I’ll be here in the reception area manifesting and stealing snacks.” She tells me with her eyes wandering, trying to make sure no one heard her.

I couldn’t help but laugh.

That’s her, my ride or die, who always knows just the right thing to say.

I offer her a hug then step into the elevator alone.

I stare at my reflection in the mirrored panel: sleek, unreadable, flawless. Reliable. A curated image.

No one knew I was the daughter of the Lancaster legacy—shipping dynasties of our own, generations deep in power and wealth. I’d walked away from that life years ago. Not publicly, anyway.

I stepped into the conference room like it was a film set. Bright, high-ceilinged, minimal. A few executives sat spaced out at the long table, faces I didn’t recognize—except one.

Liam.

He sat at the head of the table like he was born there. Dark suit, no tie, one hand resting on the surface like it owned everything it touched.

His gaze didn’t shift when I entered, but I saw it. That tiny flicker. The only tell he’d allow himself.

We hadn’t spoken since the night we were supposed to meet but he never showed up.

He sent me a text to meet up but he never showed up. I waited for 3 hours in the cold night but he didn’t show.

Then, he vanished.

Now, he watched me as if I were a stranger.

“Aria Monroe,” the casting director said brightly. “Welcome. We’re honored to have you.”

I gave a professional smile, the kind that made magazines write about my “natural grace.”

I sat when they motioned and listened while they explained the campaign—CrossLine’s rebirth, a new era of transparency and trust.

They wanted a face that represented legacy, evolution, reliability and elegance. I was flattered, I said. I wasn’t. But I knew the optics were perfect. They’d never guess how perfect.

“Whenever you’re ready,” someone said.

I nodded, rising smoothly.

The camera turned on. I breathed in, found the lines, and let the practiced warmth flow out.

“Veriton Dynamics stands for more than cargo. It stands for commitment. For history. For a promise kept across oceans. At Veriton, we carry more than goods—we carry trust.”

The room was silent for a moment.

“Lovely,” said one executive.

Another nodded. “You embodied exactly what we’re looking for.”

Then Liam’s voice cut through, low and deliberate.

“Miss Monroe, what draws you to represent a company like Veriton Dynamics ?”

He knew exactly what he was doing. Pushing me toward the edge of what I could reveal.

I met his eyes fully for the first time.

“The challenge,” I said simply.

“Reinvention. The power of legacy that isn’t defined by the past but elevated by it.”

He tilted his head slightly, considering that. I watched his eyes—not the polite gaze of a CEO but the familiar look of someone who once saw all the parts of me the world didn’t.

“And legacy,” he said quietly, “is something you understand well, isn’t it?”

The pause after the question was louder than any reaction.

I held his gaze. “I do.”

Another executive smiled, oblivious.

“Exactly the kind of perspective we’re after.”

The rest of the questions passed in a blur.

I answered them all with precision, poise.

But underneath the performance, the real tension thrummed like a live wire.

I could feel Liam watching every move, weighing every word, like a man reading a language he used to speak fluently but hadn’t heard in years.

“Thank you, Miss Monroe,” the casting director said. “We’ll be in touch shortly.”

I nodded and turned to leave. Heading towards the elevator to make my way to the reception area to reunite with Laura. The click of my heels echoed across the glass floor.

I let out a sigh of relief.

“Aria.” I hear someone call out behind me. I know that voice. How could I ever forget it.

LIAM’s POV.

They say memory starts forming properly around age four, but I remember the darkness.

The car ride. The smell of musty fabric. The feeling of being told, “This is home now.”

It wasn’t until five years ago—when I was twenty—that I learned my real name wasn’t Liam Hart, the kid raised in a one-bedroom apartment by a woman who wasn’t my mother.

It was Liam Prescott. Possible heir to a legacy I’d never asked for. Son of one of the best prosecutors in the country and grandson to (grandpa’s name). The patriarch of the Prescott family.

A family with generations worth of history and one of the richest families on the East Coast.

Old money. Most people call it.

Taken when I was three. Found again by a miracle of DNA, timing, and a cold case detective who didn’t know how to quit.

They found me. But I didn’t find myself—not entirely. Not yet.

I’ve spent the last five years trying to piece together a life I never lived. Trying to balance the man I became in survival with the one they expect me to be.

They call me the future of the Prescott legacy, but the title still feels like a coat that doesn’t fit.

And today, as fate would have it, the past I chose to leave behind walked right through the door.

Her name echoed through the room like a slow detonation: “Next, we have Aria Monroe.”

Heads turned. My heart stopped.

Aria.

Though Monroe isn’t her last name.

The only real piece of my life before the Prescott name came in.

The girl who made me feel seen when I was invisible to the world.

The only one who knew the truth before I even knew it myself—that I didn’t belong to the life I was born into. That I wasn’t sure I wanted to belong to anything at all.

The country knows her as the Aria Monroe: award-winning actress, style icon, modern muse. But I know her as the girl who used to sneak into arcades because her parents never let her go there and I was always her willing accomplice.

The girl who used to call herself a “nobody” even though she came from old money. A secret she buried deep. Very deep.

She expected me. She’s probably done her research .

I could literally see the wheels in her head churning as she steels her gaze and walks into the glass boardroom.

Her expression smoothed instantly, like a curtain falling over a stage. But I’d seen enough to know.

She hadn’t planned for this reunion. Neither had I.

Her performance for the campaign monologue was flawless, of course.

She stood in front of the execs like she owned the room—measured, radiant, composed. But I wasn’t watching the performance.

I was watching her. I shouldn’t be.

When the scripted part ended, I asked her something—off the cuff.

“What does reliability and commitment mean to you, personally?”

The branding director gave me a side glance, but I ignored it.

Aria didn’t blink. She looked directly at me, as if daring me to remember everything I’d run from.

“Reliability means showing up and commitment means keeping promises that have been made.” she said. “Not just when it’s convenient. But when it’s hard. Especially then.”

She held my gaze. I felt it—every ounce of the weight behind those words.

They were for me.

Five years ago, I disappeared and she got herself a fiancé.

I will never forget the night I left. I was torn. Broken.

I knew her parents never liked me. They saw me as nothing but a vermin who leeched his way into their little princess’s life. So I did her and everyone a favor. I disappeared. Not from the world.

Just from her.

When the Cross family found me, she was the first person I wanted to tell, so I asked her to meet up.

She never showed.

Then I went to her doorstep and found out that her parents were throwing a party discussing her engagement . It hurt.

I had to let go of everything else just to survive the shift. And Aria was the hardest thing to leave behind.

After the session, I dismissed the team early. I didn’t wait to hear their notes. I just followed her.

She was waiting for the elevator. Elegant, unreadable.

“Aria,” I said, not letting any emotion slip.