Christina’s POV

"See you." I waved goodbye to Étienne as he climbed into his car with the rest of his delegation, maintaining my professional smile until they disappeared down the drive.

The second the cars vanished, my team erupted into wild cheers.

Peter Carl wrapped me in a bone-crushing hug. Louis-François nearly face-planted rushing inside to grab the champagne he’d been saving for this moment.

"We did it!" Clémentine squealed, throwing her arms around us, her voice cracking with emotion. "Christina, we freaking did it!"

I wiggled free, grinning until my face hurt. "Yeah. We actually pulled it off."

After two brutal months of non-stop work, our autumn/winter jewelry collection had officially launched. Today’s meeting sealed the deal with Cartier’s Paris distribution arm. Soon our designs would grace runway models and fill the pages of Vogue, Elle, and Harper’s Bazaar.

Valmont & Cie was still bleeding from the financial crater Fabrizio left behind, but this was a start. A damn good one.

The team corralled me into the conference room where champagne corks popped and glasses clinked amid laughter and happy tears. The celebration stretched from afternoon into dusk, but I bailed when they suggested moving to Le Procope and then hitting a bar.

"You have to come!" Peter Carl pleaded. "You’re literally the reason we’re still in business."

"Not happening." I pointed at the dark circles under my eyes. "I’ve looked like a sleep-deprived raccoon for weeks. Time to remember what a bed feels like."

After arranging to put the team’s dinner on the company tab, I sent them off, still riding their champagne high.

I slid into my rented Peugeot 208 and drove back to my flat on Rue de Rivoli. I’d moved out of Hudson’s Paris apartment the day after we broke up.

Two months of silence followed.

I’d buried myself in work and, when that failed, in wine—just enough to knock me out before memories could surface. "Get a grip," I whispered each night, reaching for a warmth that wasn’t there anymore.

It took a week to stop making coffee for two.

For sixty days straight, I’d arrived before the cleaning staff and left after everyone else. I would’ve slept at the office if Peter Carl hadn’t threatened to report me for creating fire hazards.

Now, with the launch complete, I had no excuses left. Just an empty apartment and a sad microwave dinner for one.

I called Priya halfway through my pathetic meal.

"Sales dipped slightly this month," she reported.

"Expected." Christina Joie bore my design signature, and with me gone, it was inevitable.

"The new manufacturer is amazing though. Faster turnaround, better rates. I’m thinking about shifting all production there instead of splitting orders."

"Do it," I said, half-listening as she talked about casting techniques and metal finishes.

My focus kept slipping. I’d been avoiding phone calls with Priya, preferring emails. Priya meant Highrise City. Highrise City meant Hudson.

And Hudson meant pain.

As if reading my thoughts, Priya cleared her throat. "The Crescent pack is still a mess after Franklin’s death."

I tensed. My father’s funeral had been small, quiet. I’d flown in, attended the service, and left immediately after.

"I know," I mumbled.

"If not for the Sabreridge pack’s protection, they might have fallen apart completely," she continued carefully.

My heart squeezed. "Hudson’s still helping them?"

"Yes. Some say he’s doing it to honor his father-in-law, but..."

Former father-in-law, I wanted to correct her, but couldn’t get the words out.

I hadn’t dared ask Hudson why he was still handling my pack’s affairs after our split.

I could only assume it was guilt—guilt because he’d indirectly caused my father’s death.

If I entertained the thought that he still cared for me... well, that would be pathetically self-centered. Though we were second chance mates, he hadn’t rejected me, and I hadn’t rejected him.

Akira whimpered inside me. "I miss Hudson. The bond hurts."

"Shut up," I whispered, covering the phone.

"What?" Priya asked.

"Nothing," I said quickly. "Just talking to myself."

I’d spent the past two months obsessively replaying that last night. Wondering if there was still hope because we hadn’t formally rejected each other. We still had the mate bond connecting us.

But every time I thought about it, my chest felt like it was being crushed. Akira would howl in misery, the pain even worse than when Niall had rejected me.

"Christina, are you there?" Priya’s voice pulled me back.

"Yeah, sorry."

"I’m worried about you."

"I’m fine." The standard lie. "Just tired from the launch."

Priya sighed. "When are you coming home?"

Home. Was Highrise City still home?

"I don’t know," I admitted. "I have meetings next week with potential investors. Maybe after that."

"You can’t keep running."

"I’m not running. I’m working."

"Same difference. You’re hiding in spreadsheets and sketches."

I couldn’t argue with that. Work was my armor against memories of Hudson—his touch, his scent, his eyes... If I stopped moving for even a moment, those memories would drown me.

"I need to go," I said abruptly. "Early meeting tomorrow."

"It’s Saturday tomorrow."

"Fashion doesn’t take weekends off." I forced cheerfulness into my voice. "Love you."

I hung up before she could protest.

The silence in my apartment pressed in around me. I poured another glass of wine and walked to the window.

Paris glittered below, romantic and indifferent to my pain.

Akira whined again. "Call him. Please."

"He doesn’t want to hear from me."