The Heir Behind the Wheel

Chapter 6. The Last Goodbye

Ethan woke to the sound of morning traffic filtering through thin curtains. His neck ached. The sofa was too short for his legs, and a crease ran down his cheek from the worn cushion.

He hadn't slept in the bedroom since Vanessa left. Couldn't bring himself to touch that side of the bed. The sheets still smelled like her shampoo, and every night, that faint trace of lavender made something twist in his chest.

He missed her. God help him, he still missed her. Even after everything she'd said. Even after the divorce papers. Even after she'd looked at him like he was nothing.

Love and hate swirled together inside him, tangled so tight he couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.

But this morning, his mind wasn't on Vanessa.

It was on last night. The old man. The chase. The name that had fallen from a stranger's lips like a ghost stepping back into the living world.

*Evelyn Cole.*

His mother. And the man who claimed to be her father. His grandfather.

*Why now?* Ethan thought, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. *Why not ten years ago? Why not when I actually needed someone?*

If he'd met Arthur Cole sooner, maybe his life would look different. Maybe he wouldn't feel so small. Maybe he would've had something to offer Vanessa. Something to make her stay.

A knock at the door shattered the thought.

Ethan blinked. Glanced at the clock. Barely eight in the morning.

"Who shows up this early?" he muttered, swinging his legs off the sofa. His joints popped as he stood. He shuffled to the door in his wrinkled shirt, the same one from yesterday, and pulled it open.

Vanessa stood on the doorstep.

She looked different. Her hair was blown out, smooth and shining. The dress she wore was tailored, elegant, the kind that cost more than his monthly rent. Her heels clicked against the concrete like a statement. Like a reminder of how far apart they stood now.

"You're actually home," she said flatly, her eyes sweeping over him without warmth. "Your cab isn't out front. Figured you'd be gone."

Ethan stared at her. His mouth opened, but no words came.

She thrust a brown envelope toward his chest. Not handed it. Threw it, really. Like she was tossing junk mail.

"Just came to drop this off."

She turned her face away. Already done. Already leaving.

But Ethan caught the envelope. And something in his chest stirred. A small, stupid, stubborn flame that refused to go out.

"Come in," he said. Soft. Too soft. Too hopeful. "Just... tell me what this is. Sit down. Please."

He wanted to talk. God, he wanted to talk to her. About last night. About the old man. About the bullets and the bridge and the grandfather he never knew he had. About the fact that he hadn't seen her in days and the silence had been louder than any argument.

She used to listen. Years ago, she'd sit cross-legged on this very couch while he told her about weird passengers and traffic jams and the guy who once tried to pay him with a guitar. She'd laughed then. Really laughed.

He didn't know when that stopped.

"I don't have time," Vanessa said. Quick. Sharp. Her eyes stayed fixed on a point past his shoulder.

"It's just a summons. For the divorce hearing."

"Van—" Ethan's voice cracked on the nickname. He swallowed. Tried again. "Why does it have to go this far? Isn't there another way? Can we just... sit down? Talk like we used to?"

His pride was gone. Scattered on the floor like the broken pieces of that birthday cake. He didn't care anymore. He just wanted her back. One more chance. One more morning where she made coffee and hummed off-key and called him "babe" without meaning it.

Vanessa's lips curled. Not a smile. Something colder.

"You're pathetic," she said.

Two words. Quiet. Precise. Like a scalpel.

"Listen to me, Ethan. I am never coming back to you. I refuse to live that sad, small life. If you want to sink, fine. Sink alone. Don't drag anyone else down with you."

Ethan's hands curled into fists at his sides. His nails bit into his palms. Anger and pain crashed together inside him, hot and suffocating, but he held it in. Jaw tight. Teeth locked.

Before he could speak, a man in a crisp charcoal suit appeared behind Vanessa. He hesitated when he saw Ethan in the doorway.

"Miss... apologies," the man said, adjusting his tie.

"What?" Vanessa asked without turning around.

"Mr. Cross is waiting for us."

"Fine," Vanessa said. One word. Clipped.

She looked back at Ethan. Her eyes were ice. Empty. The kind of empty that meant nothing was left behind them.

"That summons is just a formality. If you don't show up, even better. Makes everything faster."

Then she turned. Walked away. Her heels clicked against the pavement, steady and sure, not once slowing. Not once looking back.

Ethan watched her climb into the back seat of a black sedan idling at the curb. The car was sleek, polished, worth more than his entire apartment building. Through the tinted window, he could barely make out a figure in a cream suit sitting inside. Calm. Still. Waiting.

Julian Cross.

The door closed. The car pulled away slowly, disappearing around the corner, and the street was empty again.

Ethan didn't move.

His feet stayed planted on the concrete. His body screamed at him to run. To chase. To bang on the window and beg.

But he didn't.

Not this time.

He was done chasing. Done begging. Done being someone who had nothing left to offer except apologies.

*Enough.*

His chest felt hollow. And full. Both at the same time. Like a room that had been emptied of furniture but still smelled like the people who used to live there.

One tear slipped down his cheek.

He wiped it away fast. Rough. Like it had offended him.

"I hope you never regret this, Vanessa," he whispered.

He drew in a deep breath. Straightened his spine. The morning air was cool against his damp face.

"Vanessa Hart. Starting today, I let you go. You're not my wife anymore. I release you."

His voice was quiet. But steady. Final.

"I hope you're happy."

The words hung in the air for a moment. Then the wind took them.

Ethan stood there, breathing. Just breathing. The street was quiet. A bird chirped somewhere in the thin tree across the road. The world kept turning, indifferent and ordinary.

Then a voice broke the silence.

"Mr. Ethan Cole."

Ethan flinched. Spun around.

A man stood a few feet away on the sidewalk. Charcoal suit. Silver watch. The same face from the penthouse last night.

Ethan blinked. "You're... Derek?"

Derek gave a small, professional nod. A thin smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Good morning, Mr. Cole. Mr. Arthur would like to see you."