For two years, he hadn’t really lived.
He had simply endured.
Olivia hadn’t just been his wife—she had been the only person who spoke to him without calculation, without reverence, without seeing him as a last name attached to power.
Before her, Ethan had been the perfect heir—trained to close deals faster than he processed emotions.
Olivia had cracked open that sealed life.
She loved quiet bookstores, hidden cafés, imperfect pottery, street markets, and conversations without phones interrupting them.
The day she “died”—in a car accident after a charity event—something inside him had been buried with her.
So when the girl reached into her pocket and pulled out that bracelet, the world seemed to stop.
It was silver. Delicate. With a small oval charm.
A carved flower on one side.
The initials E and O on the other.
Ethan had chosen it one winter in Boston, back when he wasn’t yet a billionaire—just a man willing to spend his last savings on something that felt permanent.
He recognized the scratch near the edge. The repaired clasp. The weight.
It was supposed to be buried.
He had seen it placed inside the coffin himself.
“Where did you get this?” he asked, his voice barely holding together.