Her house manager, Mrs. Ademi, knocked softly and entered.
“The press is outside,” she said. “And some guests from last night are asking questions.”
“Let them ask,” Amara replied.
“What should we tell them?”
“Nothing.”
Mrs. Ademi studied her. “Are you all right?”
Amara looked back at the light spreading across the lawn.
“I will be.”
By noon, reporters had gathered outside the estate gates like vultures. Cameras flashed. Voices shouted. Security held them back.
Amara gave no statement.
No explanation.
No appearance.
She disappeared.
Across the city, in a glass penthouse overlooking Victoria Island, Tund was losing his composure.
The news repeated itself on every screen: wedding canceled, Amara missing, rumors growing.
He called her once.
Twice.
Three times.
Voicemail.
His jaw tightened.
“Find out where she is,” he told his assistant.
Not far away, in a quiet office far removed from society gossip, another man watched the same news with a very different expression.
Ethan Cole leaned back slowly in his chair, eyes fixed on the screen.
He had not seen Amara in years.
Not since university in London. Not since library windows streaked with rain, late-night study sessions, unfinished conversations, and feelings neither of them ever named.
But he recognized her instantly.
And he knew something was wrong.
