Chapter 25

The phone vibrated abruptly as I was organizing project reports. The name flashing on the screen made my fingers freeze—Vivian Lancaster.

"Ryan..." Her voice trembled over the line, the howling wind roaring in the background. "I tried calling a plumber, but no one's picking up at this hour..."

I frowned, glancing at the clock—1:15 AM.

"The pipe burst. The whole living room is flooded..." Her voice shook. "I know you don’t want to see me, but I... I didn’t know who else to call..."

The wind howled louder, metal clanging sharply in the distance.

I shot to my feet. "Where are you?"

A long silence. Then, softly: "The rooftop."

Memories flashed back to three years ago. When the company was on the brink of collapse, she had stood on the ledge just like this. That time, I pulled her back—but not our relationship.

"Stay there." I grabbed my coat and bolted out the door.

Twenty minutes later, I stood before the familiar apartment. The door opened, and Vivian's swollen eyes stabbed at me. She was wrapped in a thin robe, bare feet submerged in the waterlogged floor.

The loose pipe joint was obvious. A few quick turns of the wrench, and the gushing water stopped.

"The property management will handle the rest tomorrow." I shook water off my hands. "Keep the windows open to air it out."

As I turned to leave, she suddenly threw herself against me, damp sleeves clinging to my back.

"You still care, don’t you?" Her tears soaked through my shirt. "Can we start over?"

I pried her cold fingers away. "A hundred for the plumbing repair."

She froze, her phone slipping from her grip. The screen lit up—revealing an active recording interface.

Three days later, Legal received a lawsuit. Lancaster Tech accused me of stealing trade secrets, backed by a doctored surveillance clip—showing me rummaging through her place for tools, conveniently timed the night before the bid.

The cruelest irony? The bank transfer became "stolen funds." That ham I fed to a stray cat now sat quietly on the evidence list.