We didn't go back to the penthouse.
Lucas drove us to a coffee shop in Brooklyn—not Marlene's, but somewhere anonymous, somewhere no one from Chen Industries would think to look. It was the kind of place with chipped mugs and mismatched chairs and a barista who didn't recognize either of us. Lucas chose a table in the back corner with a clear view of both exits.
"You're acting like someone might follow us," I said.
"I'm acting like someone already has." He set the manila folder on the table between us. "Alexander Kane. You dated him for two years. The relationship ended approximately eighteen months ago."
"That's the summary. What's the real story?"
Lucas's ears were still. Not pink. Not red. That eerie stillness I was learning to associate with danger. "The real story is that Alexander Kane is the reason you built the walls you're now trying to tear down."
---
They met at a charity gala, Lucas told me. Alexander was charming and handsome and ran a venture capital firm that specialized in "disrupting traditional industries." He approached Vivian because he admired her business strategy. He asked her to dance because he admired her dress. He asked for her number because he admired her mind.
"Within three months, he had access to everything," Lucas said. "Your calendar. Your email. Your company's financial projections. You trusted him."
"I never trust anyone."
"You trusted him."
Something in the way Lucas said it made my stomach twist. Not jealousy—or not just jealousy. Something harder. Something angrier.
"What happened?"
"He proposed. You said yes." Lucas's voice was perfectly level. "Two weeks before the wedding, Sophie found evidence that he had been siphoning funds from Chen Industries through a series of shell companies. He had also been sharing confidential information with a rival firm. He wasn't in love with you. He was using you to dismantle your company from the inside."
I stared at the folder. "Did I confront him?"
"You did. In your office. Sophie was there. Kevin was monitoring the security feeds. I was in the hallway." He paused. "He didn't deny it. He said you should have known better than to trust someone like him. He said business was war, and you had lost."
"What did I do?"
"You told him to leave. Calmly. Professionally. You didn't raise your voice." Lucas's jaw tightened. "Then you closed the door and didn't speak to anyone for three days. When you came back, you fired half your executive team—anyone who had been hired on Alexander's recommendation. You changed every password. You locked your office and your penthouse and yourself. And you never dated anyone again."
I opened the folder. Inside were financial records. Email correspondence. A photograph of Alexander Kane—dark hair, sharp smile, the kind of face that was designed to make people trust it.
And a second photograph. This one of me, younger, wearing an engagement ring and smiling like the world hadn't collapsed yet.
"I look happy," I said quietly.
"You were."
"And then he destroyed it."
"He tried to. You rebuilt. Stronger and harder and more alone than before."
I thought about the notebook. The entries about loneliness, about walls, about being tired of celebrating alone. Alexander had broken something in me, and past-Vivian had responded by making sure no one could ever break her again.
But that meant no one could reach her either.
"In the notebook," I said. "The last entry. She wrote 'tell Lucas I'm sorry I never said it out loud.' What did she mean?"
Lucas's ears went pink. The first color I'd seen in them since I opened that safe. "I don't know."
"You do know."
"I can speculate."
"Then speculate."
He was quiet for a long moment. The coffee shop hummed around us—espresso machines, quiet conversation, someone laughing at the counter. Unremarkable sounds in an unremarkable place where no one knew we were discussing the man who might have tried to kill me.
"After the engagement ended," Lucas said, "you were different. Colder. More distant. But sometimes, late at night, when you were working alone in your office, you would call me in to go over schedules or reports. Mundane things. Things that could have waited until morning." He paused. "I think you didn't want to be alone. But you couldn't ask for company. So you invented reasons to keep me there."
"And I never said anything?"
"You never said anything. And neither did I." His ears were crimson now. "Perhaps we should have."
---
"We should have" hung in the air between us like a door neither of us knew how to open.
I turned back to the folder. "Okay. Alexander was a manipulative, embezzling nightmare who almost destroyed my company. That explains why past-me didn't trust anyone. But why does present-me need to be afraid of him now?"
Lucas pulled out another document. Phone records. "Three weeks before your fall, you started receiving anonymous calls. The number was traced back to a burner phone purchased in Manhattan. The purchaser used a fake name, but the timing aligns with Alexander's reappearance."
"Reappearance?"
"He left the country after the breakup. Moved to London. Rebranded himself as a 'corporate turnaround specialist.' Eight weeks ago, he returned to New York. Six weeks ago, the calls began. Five weeks ago, you told Sophie you felt like you were being watched. Then you fell down the stairs."
I connected the dots. "You think Alexander pushed me."
"I think Alexander had motive, means, and opportunity. Your security system was disabled that night. No footage. No alarms. Someone who knew the building—knew your habits—could have gotten in and out without detection." Lucas's voice was ice. "Alexander knew the building. He helped you design the security protocols when you first moved in."
"Let me get this straight. My ex-fiancé tried to steal my company, disappeared for over a year, came back, started stalking me, and may have pushed me down a flight of stairs to finish the job?"
"That is the working hypothesis."
"So what do we do now?"
Lucas looked at me. His ears were still now, but not in the eerie way. Still in the way of a man thinking very carefully about what he was about to say.
"We have two options," he said. "Option one: we take all of this to the police. File a report. Let them investigate. But the evidence is circumstantial—burner phones and coincidences don't prove attempted murder."
"Option two?"
"Option two:" Lucas leaned forward slightly. "We investigate ourselves. Quietly. Carefully. We gather enough evidence to prove he was involved. And then we make sure he never comes near you again."
"You're suggesting we go after him."
"I'm suggesting we protect you. Properly. Proactively." His ears went pink. "I will not let him hurt you again, Vivian. I failed to see the threat last time. I will not fail again."
The words hit me somewhere deep. Not just the promise but the way he said my name. Like it was something precious. Something worth protecting.
"You didn't fail," I said. "Past-me was good at hiding things. From everyone. Including you."
"I should have been better."
"You're here now."
His ears went from pink to red. "Yes. I am."
I closed the folder. "Option two, then. We investigate. But we need help. Sophie's already involved. Kevin can handle the technical side. And—" I paused. "Wait. What about Elena?"
Lucas's expression flickered. "Who told you about Elena?"
"The notebook. She was in some of the photos. She was in the photo hidden in my safe, too. Me, Sophie, and Elena. 'Before everything fell apart.'" I studied his face. "Who is she?"
"A former friend. The friendship ended around the same time as your relationship with Alexander." His voice was careful. "I don't know the full story. You never spoke about it."
"But Sophie would know."
"Sophie would know," he agreed. "But Sophie also has strong opinions about Elena. Loud ones."
"Sophie has strong opinions about everything."
"This is different. When Elena left, Sophie didn't make a PowerPoint. She didn't make jokes. She said—" He paused, searching for the right words. "She said some friendships were like buildings. Once they collapsed, you couldn't rebuild. You could only clear the rubble."
That didn't sound like Sophie. That didn't sound like Sophie at all.
"I need to talk to her."
"Which one?"
"Both. Sophie first. Then—" I looked at the folder, at Alexander's photograph, at the woman I used to be smiling with a ring on her finger. "Then Elena. If she was part of this somehow, I need to know."
Lucas nodded slowly. "I'll arrange it."
"You always arrange everything."
"It's my job."
"No," I said. "It's not. But I'm starting to understand why you do it anyway."
His ears went burgundy. The coffee shop hummed around us. Outside, Brooklyn went about its unremarkable Tuesday morning, unaware that somewhere in a corner booth, a woman with no memories was building a case against the man who might have tried to kill her.
And somewhere in the middle of it all, I looked at Lucas—perfect posture, tell-tale ears, six years of waiting—and realized I was no longer just investigating my past.
I was building a future worth protecting.