Chapter 306

Serena's POV

I stepped off the private jet at the Washington airport, the crisp air caressing my face as I descended the stairs.

Benjamin Kennedy was already waiting for me beside a sleek black sedan, his tall frame leaning casually against the car door. His eyes found mine immediately, that familiar intensity making something tighten in my chest. I pushed the feeling away, maintaining the cool facade.

"You're late," he said, opening the door for me with practiced ease.

"Only by ten minutes," I replied, sliding into the backseat without meeting his gaze.

He settled in beside me, closer than necessary, his cologne filling the small space between us. The driver pulled away from the curb, and I turned my attention to the window, watching the city blur past us.

"When are you planning to head back?" Kennedy asked, his deep voice breaking the silence.

I turned toward him, one eyebrow raised. "That depends on your schedule here. I said I'd leave after seeing the exhibition. Will you agree to that?"

His expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes. "No."

I suppressed an eye roll, the frustration bubbling beneath my controlled exterior. Why even ask then? My inner voice screamed in annoyance.

"What about dinner tonight?" he continued, unbothered by my silence. "Will you be joining Marlon or me?"

"I already made plans with Marlon," I replied, scrolling through my phone to avoid his gaze. I knew what was coming next.

"I'll join you both."

I looked up then, meeting his stare directly. "Kennedy, have you forgotten that your wife is still recovering from childbirth? Shouldn't you be home taking care of her and your newborn baby?"

His jaw tightened, and I knew I'd hit a nerve. He needed the reminder. Kennedy didn't respond, and silence settled over us for the remainder of the drive.

The venue was already packed when we arrived, the cream of fashion world mingling with politicians and celebrities.

"I need to go backstage to see Marlon before the show starts," I told Kennedy as we entered.

He nodded, still distant after our exchange in the car. "I'll find our seats."

A staff member with a headset and clipboard approached me. "Ms. Sinclair? If you'd like to see Mr. Wright before the show, I can take you backstage now."

"Thank you," I replied, following her through the crowd.

We weaved between groups of people, many of whom whispered as I passed. The backstage area was a controlled chaos of models, makeup artists, and designers rushing to make final adjustments. The familiar energy brought an unexpected wave of nostalgia.

That's when I saw him.

A tall figure moved purposefully through the crowd, his broad shoulders and distinctive profile unmistakable even from behind. My heart stopped. My entire body froze mid-step, as though my soul had suddenly departed from my physical form.

Lucas Harrington.

Here.

In Washington.

The world around me blurred, sounds becoming distant and muffled as if I were underwater. I felt a tear slide down my cheek before I even realized I was crying.

My legs moved before my brain could process what was happening. I pushed past assistants and models, stumbling slightly in my haste, my composure completely shattered. Three years of carefully constructed walls crumbled in an instant at the mere sight of his silhouette.

"Excuse me," I mumbled as I brushed past someone, my eyes never leaving his retreating form.

I couldn't tear my eyes away from that retreating figure. My heart hammered against my ribs as I pushed through the crowded backstage area. The chaos of the fashion show faded into background noise. All I could see was him.

Or at least, I thought it was him.

"Serena!"

The voice behind me barely penetrated my consciousness. I kept moving, afraid that if I looked away for even a second, the apparition would vanish into thin air.

"Serena!" The voice grew more insistent. A hand gripped my arm, yanking me backward with enough force that I nearly lost my balance.

"Let go of me!" I shouted, whirling around to face my captor. My composure shattered in an instant.

Atticus Thorne stared back at me, his eyes wide with shock. His hand immediately released my arm as if burned.

"What's wrong with you?" he asked, genuine concern flashing across his features.

I spun back around, frantically scanning the crowd. But it was too late. The tall figure I'd been pursuing had disappeared among the sea of bodies.

My shoulders sagged slightly, though I fought to keep my posture rigid. Had I imagined it all? Was my mind playing cruel tricks on me again?

"What are you looking for?" Atticus asked, stepping beside me. "Who are you trying to find?"

I bit my lip, tasting the waxy residue of lipstick. Three years. Three long years since Lucas Harrington had supposedly died in that accident. Three years of rebuilding my life piece by painful piece.

And one glimpse-maybe not even real-had reduced me to this trembling, desperate woman.

"Nothing," I replied, my voice unnaturally flat. "It's nothing."

Atticus studied my face with the intensity of someone who had known me long enough to spot the cracks in my armor.

"You don't chase after 'nothing' like a woman possessed," Atticus observed quietly. "I've never seen you lose control like that."

I inhaled deeply, gathering the scattered remnants of my composure. "I thought I saw someone I knew. I was mistaken. End of story."

My tone brooked no further discussion. I straightened my dress and brushed an imaginary speck of dust, physical actions that helped me recenter myself.

"What are you doing here anyway?" I asked, shifting the focus to him.

Atticus smiled, that practiced politician's smile. "Marlon invited me too. I'm something of a fashion insider these days."

I raised an eyebrow skeptically. In all the time I'd known him, Atticus had been firmly entrenched in politics. The idea of him as any kind of fashion figure seemed absurd. "Since when?"

"I'm your business partner, aren't I? You're in fashion, which makes me half in fashion by association." His smile widened, clearly pleased with his own logic.

I sighed. "...You win this round."

My mind drifted back to the Rachel Thorne's family spectacular fall from grace three years ago. The entire dynasty had crumbled overnight when Lucas exposed their backroom dealings. Garrett Thorne and his parents had received lengthy prison sentences-thirty, twenty, and eighteen years respectively. The authorities never pursued Clarence legally, instead shipping him overseas to "retire" while confiscating the Thorne Group's assets.

The family business had fallen to Silas Thorne, who'd formed an unlikely alliance with me. Together, we'd saved what remained of their empire. After three years of careful rebuilding, the Thorne family had maintained their position as one of the four most powerful families in USA, with Atticus as their sole heir making waves in political circles.

So to hear him describe himself as a fashion insider was jarring, to say the least.

Atticus extended his hand, offering me an elegant bouquet. "These are for you."