Erased vows

CHAPTER NINE

ELSIE'S POV

The elevator doors at Grey’s Groups opened with a hiss, revealing the pristine executive floor bathed in chrome, glass, and purpose. I stepped out, adjusting the badge clipped to my blazer and tucking my hands into my coat pockets. The scent of fresh polish mixed with ambition hung in the air like perfume.

“Nita!” Tara’s voice chirped as she approached, coffee in one hand and a thick binder in the other.

“Have you heard the news?”

Good morning, Tara,” I said, offering a polite smile. “What news?”

“Maya's on leave,” she replied, lowering her voice, “and Clarisse is back in town. Talk about timing, right?”

“Tara it is an office, people are free to come and go as much as they want,” I said, feigning indifference.

I glanced sideways at Tara. She was in her early thirties, but still possessed the kind of effortless beauty and charisma that turned heads. More importantly, she was genuine—a rarity in this building.

But one thing I know is she is a keeper and might also be the only good thing that comes out of this mission.

She started working for one of the Grey's empire’s companies at twenty-four, was transferred to the headquarters two years ago. Just a week after her thirtieth birthday.

Yes, that’s how much we have talked.

We continued walking down the long hallway.

Dropping her voice, “Just a heads up, boss is cranky today.”

“How bad are we talking about?”

Over the past few weeks of working at Grey's empire, I have realized there are bad days for Liam which also means bad days for most of his staff who come in contact with him.

“Didn’t greet anyone. Snapped at IT. Threw a report in the bin five seconds after it was handed to him. That's bad.” Tara leaned in conspiratorially. “Rumor has it the blog posts from last night didn’t help.”

I froze. “What blog post?”

“You are not on i********:?”

I shook my head in reply.

“Seriously? Nita, this is the twenty-first century,” she stared, just before asking “Who isn’t on i********:?”

‘I deleted my account after I left Chicago, I couldn’t withstand the heartaches I felt anytime I scroll and I see Liam and Clarisse happy together’ I wanted to say.

“I deleted the account recently,” I said instead.

Tara let out a sigh.

“Well I have to start heading back to my desk, we could meet up for dinner and have the rest of these conversations.”

Without waiting for an answer, she walked away.

My stomach twisted slightly at the thought of what could be up.

“Thanks for the warning,” I called out.

“Just survive the first day. That’s the secret.” She called back.

I exhaled slowly before entering the lion’s den.

The top floor was as silent as it was intimidating. Glass walls separated the rooms like transparent shields with only the soft hum of technology and distant echoes of shoes on marble that could be heard.

Liam’s office sat like a throne at the far end its sleek door closed, blinds drawn covering the glass windows.

I dropped my bag just in time to notice the sticky note on my desk.

“No coffee today.”

I slid behind my desk, just outside his office, and opened my laptop.

My calendar was already overflowing:

* Reschedule Zurich investors meeting

* Finalize product prototype pitch

* Print and deliver the architecture report

* Add a meeting with MG to my itinerary

* Retrieve hospital records

I paused at the last one.

That hadn’t been there yesterday.

Had he added that?

Why does Liam suddenly want his medical details?

My pulse quickened. I clicked on the line but it was locked with admin access. I tried the internal directory, searching for any reference to his hospital stay, but the records had all been redacted.

I frowned, then minimized the screen as Liam’s door opened.

He stepped out in his usual crisp black suit, holding his phone in one hand, brow furrowed. His eyes passed over me once and twice before looking away.

“Good morning sir,” I greeted.

No reply.

No “good morning.”

No nod.

Nothing.

I waited, unsure whether to speak. But he’d already turned and walked away, barking orders to someone on the other end of the line.

So much for a Monday morning.

The hours that followed were a whirlwind of tension and silence. Liam remained holed up inside his office for most of the day. The only communication came through calendar updates and forwarded instructions. It was jarring—being so close to him, yet feeling invisible.

Often, I looked through the glass wall that separated us.

I contemplated going to check on him but what do I say? Usually, when he is upset, he likes having someone to rant to.

But I don’t have that right anymore.

He looked…..different.

Hardened. Like a statue sculpted by pressure. The Liam I’d once known would c***k a grin mid-meeting, tap his fingers along his home office desk, or scribble song lyrics in his margins. This Liam didn’t fidget. He didn't laugh. He didn’t even smile.

Except that evening at my place, he looked free, he joked, he laughed. It felt like he was a different person outside work. And when he asked me about my love life, I did not know how to feel.

The soft chime from my phone pulled me out of my thoughts. It was a text from Tara.

*Lunch?*

I glanced at the time. 1:46 PM. My stomach had been growling since eleven.

I typed back:

*"You go ahead. Catching up on something."*

Because I needed to think of a plan.

And besides, lunch was almost over.

Ten minutes later, I was standing outside his office with a notepad in hand. I knocked once and entered.

Liam sat behind his desk, typing with slow precision. The notepad beside him was filled with bullet points and crossed-out tasks.

Not even the air conditioner could stop sweat from creeping up my skin.

“Good day, Mr Grey.” I greeted.

“What do you want?” He asked, barely looking up.

“I came to see if you needed anything?” I asked, trying hard to keep my voice firm.

“I am fine, thank you” he replied dismissively.

I turned to leave.

“Miss Marshals,” he called out.

“As you must have heard Maya is on Leave” he continued “meaning more workload for you.”

“Okay sir.”

“You will get a bonus for the extra workload.”

“Thank you, sir”

And with that, I left his office.

Back at my desk, I reopened the restricted data entry in the company's system.

This time cross-referencing keywords from the documents Liam’s secretary had filed during the month of the accident. Most were scrubbed, but one reference caught my attention:

St. Albans Medical. Emergency Neuro Division.

Bingo.

I copied the hospital name and opened a browser, typing it into the search bar.

The page loaded slowly, my pulse racing faster than the loading wheel. St. Albans was an elite, private hospital on the outskirts of the city—known for its discretion and expensive price tags. The kind of place the wealthy went to disappeared while they healed.

I clicked through staff lists and archives. Finally, previous prestigious staff names surfaced:

Looking for staff who had worked two to three years ago.

Dr. Harvey McMillan – Head Neurologist (specialized in TBI recovery).**

Dr Roman Mish—Neurologist

There was even a photo, an older man with Ginger beards and thoughtful eyes. A name tag saying Dr McMillan.

I jotted the name down.

I jotted out the hospital call number.

By the time the office started to empty, I was still buried in digital rabbit holes. Every time I hit a dead end, I pushed harder. I needed to know what happened after the crash.

Because whatever changed Liam,this version of him, so cold and hollow it didn’t feel like a natural result of healing. It felt… manufactured.

I tried calling the hospital directly, pretending to be inquiring on behalf of a “client” making inquiries. The receptionist was polite but curt.

“Good day, my name is Alicia from St. Albans Medical. Emergency Neuro Division, how may I help you today?”

“My name is Maya, my brother was admitted into your facility three years ago and we have lost contact with her neurologist” I paused “Could you possibly help me with his contact details?”

“Can I have his name?” She asked.

“Liam Grey” I replied.

“Some minutes please” was all she said.

“Yes, Mr. Grey was a patient,” she said, “but I’m afraid we can’t provide personal information, if you need any personal details you will have to come to the hospital.”

“Okay,” I replied.

My head was slowly beginning to hurt.

“I guess that will be all, thank you for contacting St. Albans Medical. Emergency Neur……” she said.

“Wait please,” I interrupted “Please can you connect me to Dr McMillian?”

“We no longer have a neurologist under that name,” she said. “And I’m afraid we can’t disclose former staff details.”

“Can you tell me when he left?”

“I’m sorry, that information is confidential.”

Of course it was.

I hung up slowly.

I was sure he was the neurologist who treated Liam because Maverick Grey will always go for the best.

But when I tried to search his current practice location. Nothing.

No LinkedIn. No recent articles. No listed medical licenses. It was like he’d vanished a year after Liam’s accident.

That didn’t make sense.

Dr. Harvey McMillan, the man who supposedly treated Liam… was gone.

No forwarding address. No trace.

I sat back in my chair, heart thudding. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, itching to type his name again, hoping I’d missed something.

Then I heard the sound of footsteps behind me.

I minimized the screen in a flash.

Liam.

He looked tired, his shoulders slightly slumped. Coat over his arm, tie loosened just enough to make him look less like a CEO and more like the man I used to know.

I felt sad seeing him like this.

Our eyes locked, briefly.

And again… he said nothing.

He simply walked past, his cologne brushing the air, and disappeared into the elevator.

I turned back to my screen.

The cursor blinked over the name: Dr. Harvey McMillan.

And in the pit of my stomach, I knew I had gotten a small headlight.