"Mm—"

"Cohen, stop it. Your sister is calling."

"Hang up."

The words on the other end of the line were laced with an intimacy that made my heart sink. Imogen’s breathless moans mixed with Cohen’s cold, commanding voice, shattering any courage I might have had to confront him.

What I didn’t realize, lost in the haze of my mind, was that an unfamiliar number had been calling me repeatedly. Dozens of missed calls I had failed to notice.

The paint coating my body was starting to make me dizzy. The chill of the near-freezing air bit at my soaked skin as I knelt on the ground, trapped in a frozen eternity. The wind cut through me like a thousand knives, but it didn’t compare to the deeper wound Cohen had left in my heart.

At last, I couldn’t hold on.

Just as I felt myself slipping, unsure if it was the cold or my mind playing tricks, I felt warmth, a real, comforting embrace.

It wasn’t the sharp, cold grip I knew from Cohen. This one was gentle, and it didn’t just steady me; it melted away the cold that had seeped deep into my bones.

[I finally found you.]

[I won’t let anyone hurt you again.]

The last few messages from that unfamiliar number, along with the phone Cohen had given me, were left on the doorstep of the Whitmore family home.

In that warm, unfamiliar embrace, I left behind the place I had called home for the past eleven years. The years spent with Cohen, believing we had understood each other, convinced we loved one another, were over.

It felt as if I was clinging to a lifeline. I turned to the person who had taken me away and whispered, "I want to leave the country as soon as possible. I need to completely leave this place behind."

He nodded solemnly, his gaze steady, and reassured me. His words were enough to quiet the storm inside me.

After all, he had walked straight into the Whitmore household and taken me with ease.

With the last remnants of my fading consciousness, I added, "Like how my father disappeared without a trace years ago, I want every part of me to vanish from this country."

7

When I awoke, the world around me had changed.

I was in an unfamiliar room, small but cozy. The air was warm, and the bedside table held a steaming cup of water, evidence that someone had been here recently.

The paint had been washed off my skin, and I found myself dressed in clean clothes, a stark contrast to the mess I had left behind.

As I took in my surroundings, my eyes widened in shock. This room was eerily familiar; it looked just like my childhood bedroom.

Not the one at the Whitmore house, but the one I had before I turned ten, when my parents were still alive, and our family had cherished me like a precious treasure.

"Meow."

A small cat wandered into the room, unbothered by my presence. Its soft, white fur brushed against my side, and it nuzzled me with its tail.

I bent down, a soft smile playing on my lips as I reached out to pet it.

"Esme, don’t bother her," came a gentle voice.

I looked up to find a man dressed in white loungewear standing in the doorway, his expression kind, but unreadable.

The kitten turned at the sound of his voice, letting out a haughty meow, only to curl up against me again as if its earlier defiance had never happened.

"Sorry, she’s always been a little... particular," the man said softly. "She just really likes you."

"It’s fine," I replied, my voice quiet but sincere. "I like her too."

A rush of memories hit me of the pure white kitten I had once owned as a child. Back then, the Whitmore family had forbidden pets, and I had been fortunate just to be accepted into their home. The thought of bringing my cat along had never crossed my mind.

Maybe it was the man’s calming presence, his gentle tone, or the kitten’s soft warmth beside me, but for the first time in what felt like forever, I didn’t feel the need to ask why I was in this unfamiliar place.

I opened my mouth, ready to speak, but before I could form the words, the man handed me a coat, his movements slow, deliberate, and introduced himself.

"I’ve reached out to you before," the man began, his voice calm and steady. "I’m the head of the American Association at the school you applied to."

"I had an aunt help clean the paint off you."

"This is my house in the country. I don’t come here often, maybe just a few times a year."

"Giselle, I’ve actually known you for a long time."

"My name is Cyrus Hayes, and I knew your father."

"I came to find you at his request. He’s at the school you applied to now."

His words seemed to reach into my mind, pulling out the questions I hadn’t dared ask. Each sentence was a key, unlocking answers I had almost forgotten I was waiting for.

But when he mentioned my father, everything inside me stilled. I was struck silent. It had been so long since I’d heard any news of him.

The figure of my father had faded from my life over a decade ago. If he hadn’t vanished without a trace back then, leaving my mother and me to fend for ourselves, she might never have been so heartbroken that she chose to abandon me and remarry.

For years, I had resented him, but the ache of missing him had never completely disappeared.

What would have happened if he had stayed? Maybe I would have been loved the way I had been as a child without the bitter shadow of abandonment hanging over me. Maybe I wouldn’t have met Cohen. Maybe I wouldn’t have become entangled with the Whitmore family.

The man watched me closely, noticing the rush of conflicting emotions that crossed my face. He sighed softly as if he could see through me.

Carefully, he offered me the cup of water beside him, its warmth grounding me, pulling me out of the cold memories.

"How is he now?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

I had imagined countless scenarios, imagining that if I ever found him, I would let him have it, making him regret every second of his absence.

But now, all I wanted was to hear about him, to know he was well.

“He’s now a tenured professor at that school, and he’s thriving.”

"In his own words, he’s incredibly fortunate to have achieved his lifelong dream."

"Giselle, your artistic talent must have come from him."

In that instant, everything fell into place. I understood why he had left us all those years ago, why he had vanished without a word.

He was chasing his dream.

To him, my mother and I had been nothing more than burdens.

“He changed his name, didn’t he? Is that why there’s been no word of him here?”

Cyrus nodded.

When I heard his new name, a bitter laugh bubbled up inside me. How ironic it

Because of Imogen, the famous teacher she went abroad to study with was he.

And yet, his own daughter didn’t even know who he was, and was being falsely accused of plagiarism by one of his students.

Cyrus gently pried my hands off the cup, his fingers brushing over the red marks I had left from gripping it too tightly.

He sighed a deep, quiet sound.

“He thought you were doing well with the Whitmore family, so he never wanted to disturb you.”

“It wasn’t until you applied to the school, until I got your call, that he finally decided to reach out.”

“Giselle, I’ll take care of you from now on.”

I looked up at Cyrus, the sincerity in his words hitting me like a storm.

He was serious.

He had been entrusted by my father to find me.

The moment he truly came to understand me, though, was at a banquet during Cohen’s study abroad years.

At that banquet, Cohen had brought me along, and we had met briefly. They were classmates.

“So back then, you never told me you knew my father? You never told me I didn’t have to live as an outsider under someone else’s roof at the Whitmore home?”

My voice trembled, unraveling as I spoke, the dam of emotions finally breaking.

Cyrus steadied me, his presence a quiet anchor as I shook, feeling as if I might collapse at any moment.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “Your father thought it best not to disrupt your life. He truly believed you were happy, living well with the Whitmore family.”

Tears fell without sound, tracing the contours of my face.

Back then, I had been well, hadn’t I?

At least before Cohen and I crossed that line, everything had been fine.