Ellie POV

My apartment resembled a war zone, a chaotic landscape of cardboard boxes.

I was purging.

Every gift Marcus had ever given me was going. The silk scarf from Hermès. The pearl earrings for my sixteenth birthday. The leather-bound journal.

I threw them all into a box addressed to the Thorne Estate in Arizona. I didn't want them. They were heavy with memories I couldn't afford to carry anymore.

"Hey, Ellie?"

My roommate, a bubbly Italian girl named Sofia, hovered in the doorframe. "Are you okay? You've been packing for hours."

"I'm fine," I said, sealing the box shut with aggressive rips of the dispenser. "Just cleaning house."

"Did you hear?" she asked, leaning further into the room. "Someone said Marcus Thorne is expanding his business to Europe. Chloe gave an interview saying they might honeymoon in Paris."

"Good for them," I said. My voice was flat, devoid of emotion.

"He really took care of you, didn't he?" Sofia said, her tone dangerously innocent. "Paying for all this."

"He was paying for his conscience," I snapped.

She flinched at my tone. "Sorry."

"No, I'm sorry," I sighed, rubbing my temples. "I'm just... tired."

I turned back to my desk. There was one photo left. It was hidden under my textbooks. Me and Marcus, three years ago, watching the sunset in the desert. The light was golden, and he was looking at me with something that resembled pride.

I picked it up.

It hurt. It physically hurt, like a knife twisting in my gut.

I remembered that day. He had told me I was smart. He had told me I had a good eye for beauty.

Lies. All of it.

If he thought I was beautiful, he wouldn't have shipped me off like expired goods.

I took the photo in both hands and ripped it down the middle. I tore it again and again until his face was just shreds of paper in my trash can.

A knock at the door shattered the silence. It was a courier.

"Package for Ms. Ellie."

I signed for it. It was a box from Arizona. From him.

My heart hammered against my ribs. Had he sent a letter? An apology?

I opened it with trembling fingers.

Inside, wrapped carelessly in old newspaper, was my "Desert Flower" sculpture. It was a clumsy clay piece I had made when I was twelve. It was the only thing I had left of my childhood artistic dreams. I had left it on the mantle in the library.

He had sent it back.

He hadn't even used bubble wrap. One of the petals was chipped.

He was scrubbing me out of his house. He didn't want a single trace of me left in his sanctuary.

I looked at the chipped clay. It looked pathetic. Just like me.

He didn't know me. He thought this was just some trinket. He didn't know that I made this the day after my parents' funeral because I needed to create something that wouldn't die.

"You know nothing, Marcus," I whispered to the empty room.

I threw the newspaper on the floor.

My phone buzzed on the desk. An email from his assistant.

Mr. Thorne suggests you take business electives. He expects you to be useful to the company when you return.

Useful.

He wanted a secretary. A subordinate.

I laughed. It was a dry, harsh sound.

"No," I said.

I walked to the calendar on the wall. I circled the date of my graduation with bold, angry strokes.

I clenched my fists until my nails dug into my palms. The pain grounded me.

I wasn't going back to be his assistant. I wasn't going back to be his ward.

I was going back to settle the debt. I would pay him back every cent he spent on me. And then I would walk away forever.

I grabbed the chipped sculpture and placed it deliberately on my desk. It wasn't a keepsake anymore.

It was a reminder.

Ellie POV

Three years later.

The air in Florence was heavy and warm, thick with the scent of jasmine and grilled bread. I stood on the balcony of a villa, holding a glass of prosecco that caught the golden light of the setting sun.

I wasn't the same girl who had once cried over a sketchbook.

That girl was gone.

My hair was shorter now, cut sharper against my jawline. My dress was black silk, backless, and daring.

"You look stunning," a voice murmured behind me.

I turned to find David.

He was everything Marcus wasn't. Warm. Open. Safe. He smiled at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine affection. He was a fellow artist, a man who saw the world in vibrant colors, not black-and-white contracts.

"You're biased," I teased, leaning back into him.

"I'm honest," he corrected.

He kissed my forehead. It was a soft, lingering touch that made my shoulders relax, melting away the tension of the day.

"Ready for the toast?" he asked.

"Ready."

We walked inside. It was a small engagement party—not ours, but a friend's—though we were celebrating my gallery opening, too.

"Ellie!" someone shouted over the low hum of music. "Video call! It's the Arizona team!"

My stomach dropped to the floor.

A laptop was set up on the main table among the platters of antipasti. The screen flickered, and suddenly, there he was.

Marcus.

He looked older. There were silver threads weaving through his dark hair now. He was sitting in his office, the same cold, imposing glass fortress I remembered. Chloe was nowhere to be seen.

"Hello, everyone," Marcus said. His voice was tinny through the speakers, but it still commanded the room with effortless authority.

Then, his eyes found me.

He stopped.

He stared at the screen. His gaze raked over my dress. He stared at the way I was standing, confident and poised, a stranger to the girl he used to own.

"Ellie," he said. It wasn't a greeting. It was a question.

"Hello, Marcus," I said. My voice was steady. I didn't shake.

David stepped up beside me, his presence a solid wall of heat. He wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me close. It was a natural gesture, but also a possessive one.

Marcus's eyes dropped to David's hand on my waist. His jaw tightened visibly. I saw a flash of something volatile in his eyes—shock? Anger?

"Who is this?" Marcus asked, his tone dropping to absolute freezing.

"This is David," I said, smiling up at the man beside me. "My partner."

Silence.

Marcus looked like he had been punched in the gut. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

"Nice to meet you, sir," David said cheerfully. He leaned down and kissed my temple, right on camera. "Ellie has told me... well, actually, she hasn't said much about you."

It was a lie, but a perfect one.

Marcus flinched.

"Ellie," Marcus said, his voice strained tight.

"We need to discuss your return schedule. The flight is next week."

"I know," I said. "I'll be there."

"Good. Be careful," he said automatically. It was a reflex. A habit.

"I'm always careful," I said. "And I'm not alone anymore."

I saw his hand clench into a fist on his desk, knuckles turning white.

"David," someone called out from the kitchen, "Cut the cake!"

"Coming!" David grinned. He looked back at the screen. "Bye, Mr. Thorne."

I reached out to close the laptop.

For a split second, before the connection cut, I saw Marcus's face. The composure was gone. He looked lost. He looked furious.

I clicked End Call.

The screen went black.

I took a deep breath of the humid Florence air.

I was going back to Arizona in a week. But I wasn't going back to him.

I looked at the ring on my right hand—not an engagement ring, but a promise ring David had given me.

I was ready.

Let the games begin.

Ellie POV

The air in the Thorne estate was exactly as I remembered it. Stagnant. Sterile. Cold.

It smelled of lemon polish and expensive lilies—a scent that once promised safety but now only made my throat constrict.

I stood in the hallway, my suitcase handle digging into my palm. I wasn't here to stay. I was here to perform an autopsy on my past.

I had forty-eight hours. Just enough time to pack the rest of my things, sign whatever papers Marcus needed for his tax deductions regarding my guardianship, and get back to Florence before David's wedding.

My wedding.

I grazed my thumb over the ring hidden on a chain under my shirt. The metal was warm against my skin, a secret anchor keeping me from drifting away in this house of ghosts.

I walked into the library. It was silent. I started pulling books off the shelves—the ones I had bought with my allowance, the ones with my notes scrawled in the margins. I needed to purge this room of me.

"You're back."

I didn't flinch. I didn't turn around immediately. I placed a copy of *Pride and Prejudice* into a cardboard box before facing him.

Marcus stood in the doorway. He looked impeccable, as always. Crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a glass of scotch in his hand. But there were dark circles under his eyes that hadn't been there before, shadows that spoke of restless nights.

"Hello, Marcus," I said. My voice was flat. It sounded like someone else's voice.

He walked into the room, his eyes scanning the boxes. "You didn't tell me you were coming today."

"I emailed your assistant," I said. "I'm just collecting my things."

"You have plenty of things here," he said, his tone sharpening with irritation. "You don't need to strip the shelves bare."

"I prefer to travel light."

He took a step closer. The scent of his cologne—sandalwood and rain—hit me. My stomach twisted, but I forced my face to remain blank.

"Chloe and I have set a date," he said suddenly.

It was a test. I knew it was a test. He wanted to see if the little girl who used to follow him around with heart-eyes would crumble.

I picked up a ceramic vase I had painted when I was fifteen. "That's wonderful. I'm happy for you."

I meant it. Or rather, I didn't care enough to be unhappy.

Marcus frowned. This wasn't the reaction he expected. He swirled his drink, the ice clinking sharp and lonely against the glass. "You seem... different, Ellie."

"It's been three years," I said. "People change."

"Not that much."

He watched me for a moment longer, a flicker of unease crossing his face. It was the look of a man who realized a piece of furniture had moved itself across the room without his permission.

"I need that Desert Flower sculpture," I said, changing the subject. "The one I made. I want to take it with me."

Marcus stiffened. He looked away, taking a long sip of his drink. "I don't know where it is. The cleaners probably moved it."

"It was on the mantel," I said. "It was the only thing of my parents I had left in this room."

"It's just clay, Ellie," he said dismissively. "Stop being dramatic. I'll buy you a new one."

The casual cruelty of it almost made me laugh. As if he could simply buy me a replacement childhood memory.

"Never mind," I said. "I'll look for it myself."

I turned my back on him and walked toward the high shelves in the corner. I needed to get away from his suffocating presence. I reached up, feeling along the dusty top shelf where I used to hide my treasures.

My fingers brushed against cold metal.

I pulled it down. It wasn't the sculpture. It was a small, tarnished silver locket.

My breath hitched. It was my mother's. I thought it had been lost in the move ten years ago. Marcus had told me it was gone.

But here it was. Hidden in his study. Behind his law books.

Why did he have it?

I opened it. My parents' faces smiled back at me. A wave of grief washed over me, so potent it made my knees weak. I clutched it to my chest, squeezing my eyes shut.

"What do you have there?" Marcus asked. He was right behind me now.

I spun around, trying to hide the locket, but the sudden movement made the room tilt dangerously. I hadn't eaten since I left Florence. The jet lag and the emotional exhaustion crashed into me at once.

My foot caught on the edge of a box.

I stumbled backward.

"Ellie!"

Marcus lunged. His arm caught me around the waist, pulling me hard against his chest to stop me from falling. The momentum slammed my body against his.

For a second, time stopped.

I was pressed against him, my hands braced on his shoulders. I could feel the heat of his body searing through his shirt. I could feel the rapid, heavy beat of his heart.

He looked down at me, his eyes dark and unfocused. His grip on my waist tightened, not letting go even though I had regained my balance. The air between us crackled with a dangerous, terrifying electricity.

I tried to push away, but my limbs felt heavy, useless.

"Marcus," I whispered, a warning and a plea.

He didn't move. He just stared at my mouth, his breathing ragged, as if he was seeing me for the first time in his life.