(Ella's POV)
The apartment was silent when I walked in, but the silence didn't bring peace.
I kicked off my heels and set my purse down on the kitchen counter, the dim city lights spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Normally, I would have poured myself a drink, drowned the day in red wine and cold indifference—but tonight, something felt different.
Maybe it was the conversation with Zack. Maybe it was the way Leo Sterling got under my skin like no one ever had. Maybe it was the fact that no matter how much power, money, and control I had now—the ghosts of my past never truly left me.
I walked into my bedroom, but the second I sat on the bed, the memories hit me like a freight train.
"You think anyone wants you?"
Aunt Evelyn's voice was razor-sharp, her cold blue eyes burning through me like acid.
I was thirteen, standing in the middle of the cramped, dingy kitchen of her old apartment, my hands shaking as I clutched the torn-up book in my hands—the only thing my mother had ever given me.
Evelyn had ripped it apart in front of me, page by page, her lips curling in disgust.
"Not your mother. Not your father. They both left you, and you know why?" she sneered.
I had clenched my jaw, fighting the burning in my throat, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing me cry.
She had leaned in closer, her perfume sickly sweet, her voice a poisonous whisper.
"Because even they knew you weren't worth it."
I had felt the air leave my lungs, but she hadn't been done.
"Your father walked out before you were even born, Ella. Your mother? She would have rather OD'd on pills than stay alive for you."
I had choked on my breath, the weight of those words heavier than anything my body could carry.
"You are nothing. You will always be nothing."
The slap had come out of nowhere—hard, cruel, knocking me off balance.
I had hit the floor, my cheek burning, my vision blurring, and all I could do was stare at the torn pages of my mother's book scattered around me like dead leaves.
I gasped, sitting up so fast I nearly fell off the bed.
Sweat clung to my skin. My breath was ragged. My fingers trembled as I ran them through my hair.
I reached for the glass of water on my nightstand, but my hands were shaking too much, and it slipped—shattering into tiny shards across the floor.
Fucking hell.
I pressed my palms to my temples, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to ground myself.
But I could still hear her voice.
"Not your mother. Not your father. They both left you."
I squeezed my eyes shut harder, forcing the tears back.
I didn't cry. Not anymore.
I was Ella Sinclair. The woman who built a goddamn empire.
But right now, alone in this apartment, suffocating under the weight of memories, I felt like that thirteen-year-old girl again.
Then my phone rang.
I flinched at the sudden sound, my breath still uneven.
I didn't even check the screen before answering, my voice barely steady.
"H-hello?"
Silence. Then—
"Ella?"
I froze.
It was Leo.
"I was in your neighborhood and I wanted to…you know what scratch that"
His voice was deep, low, rough with something unreadable.
I inhaled sharply, willing my voice to be normal. "Sterling, what do you want?"
"Where are you?" he asked. No teasing. No arrogance. Just a quiet intensity.
I frowned. "At home. Why?"
A pause. Then— "You don't sound fine."
I clenched my jaw. "That's because you woke me up."
Lie. I hadn't slept at all.
He exhaled, and I could hear faint sounds in the background—the hum of a car engine.
"Are you crying?" he asked suddenly.
I stiffened, heat crawling up my throat. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"You sound like you've been crying."
I gritted my teeth, hating how sharp he was. "I don't cry, Sterling."
Another pause. Then— "I'm outside."
My breath caught. "What?"
"Outside your building," he clarified. "Open the door."
I sat there, my heart pounding, my fingers gripping the sheets.
For a second, I considered hanging up, locking the door, pretending like this moment never happened.
But I didn't.
Instead, I stood, walking slowly to the front door, my bare feet cold against the hardwood floor.
I hesitated. Then I unlocked it, pulling it open.
And there he was.
Leo stood there, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone.
The hallway light cast shadows across his sharp features, his dark hair slightly messy, like he had run his fingers through it one too many times.
He stepped inside without a word, shutting the door behind him.
For a long moment, he just looked at me.
Then his gaze dropped—to the floor, where the broken glass still lay.
He exhaled. "Jesus, Ella."
I crossed my arms, my voice sharp again. "What, you gonna lecture me now?"
Leo didn't say anything. Instead, he walked past me, disappearing into the kitchen.
A minute later, he returned with a towel and crouched down, picking up the shattered glass.
I stood frozen, watching as a billionaire real estate mogul cleaned up my mess without a single complaint.
Something tightened in my chest.
When he was done, he stood, tossing the towel onto the counter.
His gaze met mine again, this time softer.
"Who hurt you?" he asked quietly.
I inhaled sharply, hating how easily he saw through me.
I forced a smirk, lifting my chin. "You think you're the first man to ask me that?"
His jaw tightened. "I think I'm the first one who actually wants the answer."
Silence.
Too much silence.
I didn't answer. I couldn't.
So I just looked away, refusing to let him see me crumble.
After a beat, he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "You need to sleep, Sinclair."
I scoffed. "Thanks for the expert advice."
But before I could pull away, he reached out—grabbing my wrist, stopping me.
And just like that, the air between us shifted.
His fingers were warm, his touch firm but careful, like he wasn't sure if I'd let him hold me for longer than a second.
I swallowed. "What are you doing?"
His eyes searched mine. "Making sure you don't fall apart."
I exhaled shakily, my entire body betraying me.
But then I pulled back, stepping away, locking every emotion behind a wall of steel.
"Go home, Sterling," I said, my voice smooth again. Unshaken.
For a long moment, he didn't move.
Then he sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Fine."
He walked to the door, pulling it open.
But before he left, he turned back, his green eyes flickering.
"If you ever need someone to fight your ghosts, Sinclair," he murmured, "you know where to find me."
Then he was gone.
And I stood there, in the silence of my apartment, wondering why the hell Leo Sterling made my ghosts feel a little less terrifying.