Chapter 5 The Last Page
There, a small handwritten list awaited him. The words were neat, though the ink had faded in places. At the top of the page, in her precise handwriting, were the words: “Future To-Do List.”
His eyes fell on the first entry.
James’s fingers trembled slightly on the page. His own memory of that day flickered in his mind — the weight of the old man on his back, Mia’s terrified face in the hospital corridor, her soft voice thanking him repeatedly.
He kept reading.
Age 20: James might like the collection of watches on Regent Street. On our first anniversary, we’ll go to Harrington he had been in another city, too busy to come home. The gift she had planned had never been given.
Age 21: I don’t think I want to have kids this young. Is it okay to choose not to? I’m kind of scared. But maybe if James wants, we can have one… and then maybe another when I’m older.
Mom and Dad must be missing me a lot. They always say that when I’m home, that’s when the house feels alive. Maybe by now, I’ll buy a place near theirs so James and I—and our kids—can live close to them.
By now, James will surely smile more at me, at my parents. Mom has such a warm smile. James does too, though I mostly saw it on TV. He doesn’t smile much in real life… not even when we went to sign our marriage papers.
His heart twisted. He remembered the cold government office, the way he had signed the papers without looking at her even once.
James’s hands clenched tighter on the album. He turned the page again.
Age 22: James really likes Christmas. There are so many pictures on the wall of him with his friends during Christmas.
I think by next Christmas, he and I will know each other better and celebrate it together.
Mrs. Maisel said he’s always been very fond of celebrating Christmas with his friends and family.
And now that I’ll be his family, won’t he take me with him too?
Since it’s his favorite time of the year, and by now we’ll have been together for four years, I’ll surprise him with a special Christmas party.
I’ll decorate everything myself so he can have fun with the people he loves the most. Maybe by now, he and I will love each other a lot too.
I really hope so. I’ve never had anyone other than my parents love me before.
Having one more person who loves me just as much would be amazing.
Underneath all the notes, there was another entry—but this one was in a different color. The ink was fresh, darker than the others.
Age 23 : .
There was only a single dot, pressed deep into the paper, as if the pen had lingered there in hesitation. The ink was a different color—fresh, recent—like it had been added just days ago. It looked as though she had held the pen there for a long time, wanting to write something… but unable to.
Mrs. Maisel’s voice broke the silence, soft and earnest.
“I saw those photographs. And the notes at the end. Mrs. Sinclair had listed and attached all the small and big things about you. What you like, what you don’t.
She even attached photographs when you didn’t like a dish and then wrote a note to never make that dish again in the house, even for herself. ”
James slowly lifted the album again, his eyes fixed on the notes. His face was pale, troubled, a tight coil of tension running through his body.
Mrs. Maisel continued quietly, almost pleading now. “I wonder,” she said softly, “why would someone who doesn’t care about you do all this? Care for the small and big things you like, picture a future with you? Mr. Sinclair… if you lose Madam, you might regret it for the rest of your life.”
James’s eyes stayed glued to the notes, his fingers gripping the album until his knuckles turned white.
For a heartbeat, the air between them was heavy with silence. Then James’s eyes flickered, hardening like steel. His fingers tightened violently on the album.
“I won’t regret a fucking thing,” he said in a harsh, cold voice. “I haven’t regretted anything in my entire life. What is a woman?” His jaw clenched. “She’s nothing.”
He stood abruptly, tossing the album aside onto the table as if it were nothing. It landed with a heavy thud, the pages fanning open slightly as it slid to a stop.
He turned toward Mrs. Maisel, his voice colder than ice as he said, “From now on, no one in this house will even say her name. If she wants to die on the streets, then let her die alone!”
And without another word, he stormed out of the study, his footsteps echoing through the empty house.
***
The snow fell harder that night, blanketing Manhattan in a cold, white silence.
The city that never slept looked ghostly under the streetlights.
Roads buried, sidewalks deserted, even the usual hum of traffic drowned under the storm’s hush.
But through that eerie stillness, a single black car cut through the snow with sharp speed, its tires hissing over the wet asphalt.
Inside the car, the man in the backseat sat rigid—his tall frame tense, his knuckles white around the cigarette between his fingers.
The smoke curled lazily toward the car ceiling, mingling with the cold breath he exhaled.
His sharp jawline was framed by the rectangular black glasses perched on his face, adding to his dangerously magnetic presence.
Alexander Graves had faced boardrooms, enemies, and billion-dollar losses without flinching, but tonight his pulse raced like a man staring down the end of the world.
The low dashboard light fell across his face, highlighting the clean, dark lines of his profile.
His black rectangular glasses sharpened the intensity of his piercing eyes.
Even in the muted glow, his tailored suit clung perfectly to his broad shoulders, and the high cheekbones and strong jaw gave him an effortless, cold handsomeness that demanded attention.
He took a deep drag from the cigarette between his fingers, his jaw tight. The smoke curled around his face before he leaned toward the half-open window, tapping the ash outside with precise, shaky movements, trying to steady the torrent of anxiety boiling inside him.
“Did you find her yet?” His harsh voice cut through the silence, threaded with an urgency that made Allen, his secretary, flinch.
Allen’s hands tightened on the wheel. His gaze flicked nervously to the rearview mirror, landing on Alexander. “Not yet, Mr. Graves,” he answered. “Miss Bennet—”
Alexander’s head snapped around, his piercing gaze locking on Allen and freezing him mid-word.
Swallowing hard, Allen corrected himself immediately.
“Mrs. Graves… she was last seen at the train station by our men. But they lost her in the crowd. She got off first, and they lost track of her. And then—she just disappeared.”
A muscle in Alexander’s jaw twitched. The air inside the car seemed to drop ten degrees. He took a long drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing in the dim interior of the car. He inhaled sharply, exhaled through clenched teeth, then muttered coldly, “Fire them.”
Allen’s pulse spiked. “S-Sir?”
Alexander’s voice was ice-coated steel. “Get more people. Replace everyone currently on the task. I don’t want to see them again.”
“Yes, Mr. Graves.” Allen fumbled with the car’s screen and pressed a number.
Allen, shorter than Alexander but wiry and quick, had sharp green eyes that flicked constantly over every detail.
His light brown hair was slightly tousled, and a faint shadow of stubble gave him a rugged edge.
Calm in posture but alert, he moved with the precision of someone used to anticipating orders.
The call connected after two rings. “Replace the men searching for Mrs. Graves,” Allen instructed sharply. “Fire the ones currently on duty. Double the team. I want updates every five minutes. The moment you spot her, report—but maintain distance. Protect her, don’t crowd her.”
“Yes, sir,” the voice responded before hanging up.
Allen pressed harder on the accelerator, and the car surged forward through the snow. The engine hummed louder, but inside the car, Alexander’s silence was heavier than noise. He took another drag, but halfway through, his fingers trembled.
A sharp ache pierced through his chest. The cigarette slipped slightly between his fingers as he clutched at his heart, a sudden panic rising like fire in his lungs, breath hitching in short, panicked gasps.
“Mr. Graves?” Allen’s voice rose in alarm. “Are you—”
Alexander leaned forward slightly, his breath ragged. “Something’s wrong with Mia,” he muttered, his voice strained.
Allen glanced at him through the mirror, hesitation flashing across his face. “Maybe it’s just the cold, sir. You haven’t eaten anything all day—”
Alexander’s glare froze him mid-sentence, a silent warning to keep his thoughts to himself.
Then, Alexander’s eyes caught something in the snowe. He leaned forward, his gaze fixed outside the window. “Stop the car,” he barked.
“What—sir?”
“Stop the damn car!”
Allen slammed the brakes, tires screeching against ice. Both men lurched forward. Alexander didn’t wait; he threw open the door and sprinted into the snow-covered street. His boots crunched sharply against the icy ground, each step propelled by urgency.
The cold hit him like a slap, but he didn’t care. His eyes were locked on something near the corner of the street—a single white sandal lying half-buried in the snow.
Alexander strode toward it, his steps fast, almost frantic. Kneeling down, he picked it up carefully, brushing the snow off the surface. It wasn’t broken. It had simply fallen off.
Allen hurried after him, breath puffing in the cold air. “Mr. Graves, what happened? Is something wrong?”
Alexander’s voice was tight, frayed with panic. “Mia was wearing this today.”
Allen’s brows knit in confusion. “Are you sure, sir?”
Alexander didn’t reply, his gaze snapping to his phone. He scrolled through the photos his men had sent. There it was—Mia, this morning, the white sandal on her foot, perfectly matched to the day.
“She was wearing this today,” Alexander repeated, voice dropping to a growl. “Yesterday—black sandals. The day before—yellow ones at her home. Today… this white one.”
His chest tightened further, anxiety clawing up his throat. He spun, scanning the silent streets with desperate, feverish eyes. Every shadow seemed alive with possibilities, every corner a potential hiding place. His steps quickened, boots crunching over snow-packed asphalt.
And then—a faint rustle.
From under a makeshift tent by the alley, a figure emerged. A woman in torn clothes, her face shadowed by the hood of her coat, stepped toward him hesitantly.
“Sir…” her voice was trembling. “Are you looking for that injured woman? A young lady…?”
Alexander’s blood ran cold.
“Are you her husband?” the stranger demanded, eyes scanning him from head to toe, then locking on his.
Her voice was sharp, threaded with fury.
“Some goons just attacked her, and you refused to even send a few thousand dollars for her treatment? Are you out of your mind?!” She snapped, her gaze drilling into his. “What are you looking for now?”
Alexander’s eyes went cold, dark, and blank. Every word from her mouth sent heat rushing to his ears, making his blood pound.
“The goons hurt your wife badly,” she continued, urgency cracking her voice. “There’s a wound on her head. You need to find her—now!”
Terror and panic flared across Alexander’s face, twisting his usually controlled features into a mask of urgent fear. He stepped closer, his intensity forcing the woman to take a wary step back. “Where is she?” he demanded, voice low, almost strangled with panic. “Where did she go?”
Allen, quick on his feet, pulled a wad of cash from his pocket and thrust it into the woman’s hands. “Can you help us find her?”
The woman’s eyes widened as they fell on the money, her fingers curling around the paper.
A spark of interest flashed across her gaze.
“Yes, she’s very close. She was walking this way,” she said, indicating the road ahead.
“She’s injured. Hurry—you might find her just down this street. It hasn’t even been a few minutes.”
Before the woman could finish, Alexander was already sprinting, boots cutting through the snow with a force born of panic and desperation.
Allen quickly said to the woman, “Thank you!” before rushing back to the car. He slid behind the wheel and revved the engine, speeding off to follow Alexander.
Within minutes, Alexander’s eyes caught a figure in the distance—a lone shape stumbling through the snow. A coat barely covered her, her feet bare, shivering with each step. Panic surged as he noticed her faltering, nearly falling. Alexander’s steps accelerated, adrenaline surging through him.
She stumbled, teetering dangerously, and in that instant, time seemed to stretch. Alexander lunged, catching her mid-fall. Her body was feather-light yet chilling against him, trembling from cold and shock. He held her close, securing her against his chest.
Allen skidded the car to the curb. Alexander didn’t wait—he stormed to the rear door, yanking it open.
He lifted Mia into the car with practiced urgency, cradling her protectively as he settled into the backseat.
Her head rested against his chest, limp and unconscious, and he pressed himself closer, shielding her from the cold.
His heart ached as he felt how cold her hands were, how fragile she felt in his arms.
“Home,” he muttered, voice taut with urgency. Allen’s hands moved with precision on the wheel, and the car roared off through the snowy streets.
Swiftly, he pulled the overcoat he had worn earlier and wrapped it around her, cocooning her against the chill. Only her face remained visible. One hand cradled her head, the other rested over her ear, shielding her from the wind.
Mia stirred slightly, tiny hands grasping at his coat, then clutching at his collar. Her lips quivered against his chest, a faint shiver running through her.
Alexander bent down, his face dangerously close to hers, breath mingling, and for a moment the world disappeared. Then, in a breathless, impulsive surge, he pressed his lips to hers.
Pulling back just slightly, he whispered, low and intense, “Mia… you are mine now.” A dark, almost predatory smile tugged at his lips as he held her closer.