Chapter 7
Two years later.
New York, shrouded in misty rain.
In a small Brooklyn brownstone, wisteria bloomed in full splendor, swaying gently in the drizzle.
I sat by the floor–to–ceiling windows of my studio, watching the rain stitch delicate ripples across the lake outside.
At my feet, a lazy orange tabby purred contentedly.
The air was filled with the crisp scent of turpentine and fresh rain.
On the table beside me, my tablet glowed softly, displaying the personal homepage of Aurelia Kirwell, an up–and–coming international jewelry designer.
Pinned at the top was a preview for a major retrospective in Paris–my name and creations shone brilliantly on the poster.
After leaving that world, I’d traded in heartbreak for a fortune.
With my real name–Amelia–and years of honed design talent, I’d built a new life here, one rooted in freedom and ease.
No endless suspicion and arguments. No cold dinners growing cold on the table, waiting for someone who never came. No shadows of another woman haunting my every move.
The exhaustion and wounds deep in my soul had slowly healed in the calm passage of time and the passion of my craft.
01:140
Chapter 7
288 (Vouchers
Sometimes, in the quiet of midnight, Jared’s face–shocked and devastated
would still flicker through my dreams. But the waters of my heart no longer rippled.
Only a faint, distant sigh remained.
Two years. Has he really not moved on?
In the CEO’s office on the top floor of the Hurlow Group.
The same cold luxury, the city skyline outside the window shrouded in
gray.
The air was thick with cigarette smoke and a heavy, suffocating silence.
Jared stood with his back to the door, staring out the floor–to–ceiling windows.
His posture was still tall, but there was a heaviness–a chill about him.
A cigarette burned between his fingers, the smoke blurring his profile.
Reflected in the glass before him was a photo–an old, blurry snapshot from years ago, taken on a battered phone. We were huddled together by tiny space heater in that basement; he was smiling as he fastened that cheap silver chain around my neck.
He’d enlarged the photo, printed it, and taped it to the cold glass.
His desk was buried in paperwork, but what stood out most was a design magazine.
The cover featured–me–Aurelia.
Scattered around were articles, interviews, and even an invitation to my solo exhibition in Paris.
le studied them with intense focus, his fingers unconsciously brushing
01140
Chapter 7
across the magazine’s cover, where I smiled with confidence.
His eyes were a storm of complicated emotions.
“Ahem.” I cleared my throat softly.
Jared’s back went rigid.
His hand trembled, cigarette ash falling in a silent shower.
288 Vouchers
He turned around–slowly, cautiously, as if afraid that one wrong move would make me vanish again.
The moment his gaze landed on me–standing in the doorway, real and solid–those deep, dark eyes erupted with emotion.
Shock, wild joy, disbelief, overwhelming fear-
A thousand fierce feelings crashed and collided in his eyes.
“A… Amy?”
His voice shook with disbelief.
He staggered forward a step, then froze, as if afraid that getting any closer would make me disappear.
“It’s me.” My voice was calm, steady. “I’m back, but only for five hours.”
“Five hours…”
He echoed, his joy instantly drowned by panic.
He rushed toward me, desperate to grab my hand, but just before touching me, he jerked back.
“Why… only five hours?”
288 (Vouchers
Chapter 7
Pain and pleading filled his voice. “Amy, don’t go! Please! I know I was wrong! I swear I know! Siena… It’s over, it’s been over for ages! There’s nothing left! I’ve been looking for you for two years! I—”
“Jared.” I cut him off, my gaze cool and unwavering as it landed on his face. “I didn’t come back to hear any of that.”
I walked to the massive desk and picked up the magazine with my face on the cover.
“See this? Aurelia Kirwell.”
I tapped my finger on the name. “This is who I am. Not the Amelia who lived under the shadow of Mrs. Hurlow, not the bitter woman trapped between you and Siena.”
I looked up, meeting his eyes head–on.
“Tell me, Jared. Do you love the Amelia from back then–the one who pulled you out of the nightmare, who had eyes only for you? Or do you love the Amelia you pushed to the edge, piece by piece, with your coldness, your lies, your comparisons a woman you no longer recognized?
“Or is it that you simply can’t stand the thought of something you once owned breaking free in a way you can’t control?”
Chapter 8
