I was inflating a tire at the auto repair shop when my phone buzzed.

A friend request popped up: "Have you made enough of a scene? If you have, come home."

The profile picture was a candid of me performing in Vienna years ago.

Looking at it, I wasn't angry. I laughed.

Five years. To him, these five years were nothing but "making a scene."

He probably thought I was still the Alex Henson who'd come running the moment he crooked his finger.

Even through the screen, I could picture his expression.

I wiped the greasy fingerprint off and tapped Accept.

He replied instantly: "Where are you? I'll come pick you up."

I felt nothing. It was almost funny.

I typed two words: "No need."

The moment it sent, I blocked him and tossed the phone back into the toolbox.

1.

Frank Chavez's voice exploded across the shop floor, mixing with the clang of a wrench hitting sheet metal.

"Alex! Where the hell did you disappear to? This Passat's leaking oil everywhere. If you don't want to work, get out!"

I didn't look up. Just slid under the car.

Oil dripped down the chassis onto my face—warm, sticky.

I wiped it with my sleeve. Grime mixed with sweat, blurring my vision.

This was the "making a scene" Marcus Abbott talked about. This was my five years.

I'd just crawled out when my phone vibrated again.

Chloe Gilbert.

Her voice hit me the second I picked up.

"Alex! Run! That lunatic Marcus has turned Rongcheng upside down—he found out you're at Southside Auto Repair!"

"Those Maybachs are headed your way right now!"

I held the phone away and looked at the black dirt under my nails that wouldn't wash clean.

"Let him look."

"Are you insane?"

Her voice was shaking.

"Back then—wasn't that enough? You want to fall into his hands again?"

"Chloe."

I cut her off, my gaze dropping to my right hand.

A scar ran from the base of my thumb across the back of my hand. My index and middle fingers were stiff, the knuckles swollen and deformed, the fingertips blunt.

Who would believe this hand once played in Vienna's Golden Hall?

"I'm just a mechanic now. Someone with nothing has nothing to fear."

"I'm hanging up. I have work."

I ended the call. The phone buzzed again.

A text from an unknown number.

"Had enough fun? There's a charity banquet tonight. Sophia Pruitt needs a page-turner. You're coming."

Then another.

"Don't be ungrateful. This is your chance to come back. Address sent."

Sophia Pruitt.

That name sent a phantom ache through my dead hand.

Five years ago, she was the one Marcus would brave a blizzard to reach.

I was the one left behind.

I deleted the texts, pocketed my phone, and walked over to Frank.

"Frank, I need the day off."

His eyes bulged, spit flying.

"Day off? How many times this month? If you don't finish this car—"

"Today is my daughter's death anniversary."

He shut up. His gaze swept over my filthy uniform, and he waved his hand.

"Go. Don't be late tomorrow. I'm docking fifty from your attendance bonus."

I went to the locker room, stripped off the oil-stained coveralls, and changed into a denim jacket washed so many times it had faded white.

I rode my scooter west.

The wind cut across my face.

An hour later, I stopped in a stretch of wasteland.

This wasn't a proper cemetery—weeds choked everything, and jagged rocks jutted from the earth.

I stopped in front of an inconspicuous dirt mound tucked in the corner. No headstone.

I pulled a plastic bag from the bike basket. Inside: three pieces of chocolate and a few pages of sheet music, rain-soaked and yellowed. The chocolate had started to melt.

I set them in front of the mound and reached out to pull up the new weeds around it.

"Lily, Mom's here."

I sat on the gravelly ground and stroked the dirt with my crippled right hand.

"Still no money for a cake this year. Mom's useless."

The wind blew.

I tugged at the corner of my mouth and unfolded the sheet music.

"Mom will play piano for you, okay? There's no piano, but Mom remembers the score."

I lifted my hand and pressed down into empty air.

No piano sound—just the faint click of my finger joints moving.

I'd only played two measures when sharp pain shot through my right hand. My fingers curled up.

"Mom's hand hurts. I'll stop here for today."

I dropped my head onto my knees. My tears smashed into the dirt.

My phone rang.

I looked at the familiar-yet-unfamiliar number and answered.

"Alex Henson." Marcus's voice came through. "I'm giving you thirty minutes. Show up at Bluewater Villa. Otherwise, I'll tear down that auto repair shop and make sure your foreman can't work in Rongcheng for the rest of his life."

"You can try." My voice was hoarse.

"You can gamble." His voice was flat. "Gamble on whether I'm joking. Don't force me to get rough. You know I have that ability."

The call ended.

I looked at the little dirt mound and reached out one last time to touch the soil.

"Lily, that bad guy is coming to cause trouble again. Be good down there. Don't be afraid."

Bluewater Villa.

It used to be my marital home. Now it was Marcus and Sophia's.

I parked the e-bike outside the wrought-iron gate and was about to go in when a security guard stopped me.

"Hey, hey, hey! What do you think you're doing? Scrap collectors use the back gate!" He waved his hand dismissively.

I glanced down at my shoes. The canvas was peeling at the edges, smeared with black mud.

"Marcus Abbott told me to come."

He snorted. "Mr. Abbott? Mr. Abbott would know a beggar like you? Why don't you piss and look at yourself in—"

A black Bentley pulled up. The window rolled down, revealing Marcus's face.

Five years had added a bit of maturity.

The guard immediately switched to a grin. "Mr. Abbott, there's this crazy woman insisting she's here because you—"

"Let her in."

Marcus didn't look at me. The window rolled back up, and the car drove through.

I followed on foot into the villa.

The moment I entered the living room, I heard piano music. The third movement of Moonlight Sonata. The player was struggling—wrong notes, one after another.

Sophia sat at a Steinway in a white formal dress.

My dowry.

"Marcus, this piece is too hard. Could Alex really play it with her eyes closed back then?"

She stopped and pouted.

Marcus handed his coat to a servant, his gaze landing on me in the entryway. He frowned.

"Alex, did you just crawl out of a trash heap?"

He took two steps closer, caught a whiff of motor oil, and backed away again, pulling out a handkerchief to cover his nose.

"Dressing like a beggar—is this your way of getting back at me? Trying to make me feel guilty?"

I stood at the edge of the carpet. I didn't step onto it.

"Mr. Abbott is overthinking it. Life forced it."

Sophia turned around. When she saw me, something flickered in her gaze. Then she smiled, lifted the hem of her skirt, and walked over.

"Oh my, it really is Alex."

Sophia reached out her hand.

"How did you end up like this? Come in and sit down."

Before her fingers could touch me, I pulled my right hand back and hid it behind my back.

"Don't touch me."

Her hand froze midair. Her eyes reddened, and she turned to Marcus.

"Marcus, I just wanted to show some concern for Alex..."

His face darkened.

"Alex Henson! Sophia means well—why are you giving her attitude?"

"Five years running wild out there, and you not only didn't learn any manners, you've gotten even cruder!"

I tugged at the corner of my mouth and said nothing.

He pulled a black card from his wallet and tossed it at my feet.

"Since you're back, stop with the pitiful act. Take it and buy some decent clothes. Clean yourself up."

"Don't embarrass me at tonight's banquet."

The card hit the floor.

I looked down at it and didn't move.

He let out a cold laugh.

"What? Think it's not enough? Alex Henson, know when to quit."

"Behave yourself and make Sophia happy, and I might consider letting you back into the Abbott family."

He paused.

"Since you're back, bring your daughter too."

"Sophia's very generous. She said she's willing to be a stepmom—treat her like her own."

I jerked my head up and stared at him.

Bring her back?

Treat her like her own?

My body trembled.

He actually thought Lily was still alive?

After that blizzard—after he threw her on the side of the road—a two-year-old burning with fever could still be alive?

"What? Not willing?"

He looked at me.

"Afraid Sophia will mistreat her? Alex Henson, you're still as petty as ever. Sophia is ten thousand times kinder than you."

I clenched my right hand behind my back, nails digging into my palm.

"She doesn't have that kind of luck."

I forced the words through clenched teeth.

His expression shifted.

"Alex Henson! Don't refuse a toast only to drink a forfeit! That little bast—"

"Marcus Abbott."

I cut him off, bent down, and picked up the black card.

"I'll go buy clothes."

The moment I walked out the villa door, I heard Sophia's voice behind me.

"Marcus, don't be mad. Maybe Alex just can't accept it yet..."

After leaving the gated neighborhood, I tossed the black card into a roadside trash can.

Too dirty.

Back at the rental apartment, I dug a red evening gown out of a box under the bed.

My battle outfit from the Vienna solo recital five years ago.

The hem had a big hole chewed by rats, spotted with mildew.

Holding needle and thread, I used my trembling right hand to clumsily mend the tear.

Someone knocked on the door.

Chloe rushed in, eyes swollen and red.

"Alex..."

She hugged me.

"I found it—I found it!"

"Found what?"

"That car accident..."

She was shaking.

"That truck wasn't an accidental loss of control! It was Marcus—"

"He had someone slash your tire, forcing you into that rigged car, just to buy Sophia time to escape!"

The needle stabbed into my fingertip. A bead of blood welled up.

So that's how it was.

I looked at the drop of blood and smiled.

"Good to know."

"Chloe, help me with my makeup. Tonight, I'm attending a funeral."

The evening charity banquet was held at a five-star hotel.

Crystal chandeliers blazed overhead; a champagne tower rose in the center.

I appeared in the hall wearing that mended red gown, and the room went quiet.

The style was outdated. The stitches at the hem were crooked.