“Not just about me. You’re angry at the world. Like it owes you something.”
A low chuckle escapes me. “You were on a rooftop trying to jump, and you’re analyzing me?”
She doesn’t flinch. “You wear it like armor. The sarcasm. The cold.”
I should be offended. Instead, I feel… seen. Uncomfortably so.
“I’m not cold,” I say.
“Yeah,” she breathes. “That’s what makes it worse.”
Before I can get a word out, she takes a shaky step closer. Her fingers brush mine, just barely. Like a question.
“I don’t know who you are,” she says, “but thank you for stopping me.”
And for one suspended second, I almost forget there’s a war waiting outside. Because the war inside her feels more real than anything I’ve ever fought.
The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime.
“I should go,” she whispers — but she doesn’t wait for an answer. She bolts, like hell itself is nipping at her heels.
But not before her eyes flick back to mine, just once.
Like she’safraid of remembering me.
Or of me remembering her.
I want to chase after her. Every part of me screams to. But I don’t.
I just stand there and watch — watch her slip through the building’s front door and vanish around the corner.
Her scent lingers in the elevator, faint and stubborn like she’s already trying to haunt me.
I breathe it in, one last time, then step out.
I don’t know her name. I don’t know her story. But Rossi — our security — taps my shoulder in the lobby. “She dropped this, sir.”
It’s a coffee receipt from La Colombe, the ink running at one corner. The paper folds into my hand like a promise someone couldn’t keep.
War can wait a breath,but not for long.
2
BEATRICE
Two weeks earlier…
They don’t warn you how fast the light disappears. One moment you’re walking in sunshine; the next, shadows have swallowed you whole.
“It’s going to be a good day tomorrow,” I tell my reflection, twisting a towel around my damp hair like a crown. “The job’s already mine. This is just a formality. I know it.”
No more hospital bills. No more treatment centers. My mother is finally well. And for the first time in years, I’m free to think about my own life — a small, glittering luxury that until now has been nothing but a distant dream.
Tomorrow is my first interview with La Rouge, downtown. Not just any job — a once-in-a-lifetime chance.
La Rouge isn’t just a fashion house; it’sthefashion house. This position may not be glamorous, but it’s a stepping stone. An essential stepping stone.
My eyes catch the light, turning warm caramel as they always do when I’m happy. “We’re allowed to hope now, Beatrice. It’s okay to dream.”
