And as much as I know he wasn’t cruel—not really, not to me—he still made the decision to cast me out. Even if it was to shield me from Ciaran’s wrath, it doesn’t change the facts.
And the facts are that every one of those bastards turned their backs on me when I needed them most. The Four Points say blood is everything, but mine was never thick enough. They turned their backs on me in an instant, like I was nothing. Like I never belonged. And Christ, does it burn.
Even if they welcomed me home tomorrow, I don’t know if I’d ever feel like I truly belonged or if I could ever put my blind trust in them again. Hell, I don’t know if I would evenwantto head back to London.
“Babe, don’t ‘Cora’ her. We just want to bring you home. We miss you, we’re worried about you.” Abbie’s voice cuts through, fierce and tender all at once—red curls wild, eyeliner sharp, eyes far too perceptive. I feel it land inside me, a warmth that isn’t mine, and a pang that is.
Looking at the two of them, I realise they’ve found their peace. Their people, a love that doesn’t just hold you but chooses you, time and time again.
A love I’ve only ever witnessed from the outside. Brushed against in passing, but never been able to claim as my own.
They have everything I’ve ever wanted for myself, and Christ, how I ache for it. For the certainty of belonging. For the comfort of being wanted without compromise, without walls, without the constant fight to be enough.
I swallow the envy and let it soften into something else, something quieter, something tinged with hope.
Maybe one day I’ll find that, too. Maybe one day I’ll have someone who chooses me, relentlessly, even when the worldtries to strip me away. Someone who won’t leave me more broken than they found me.
Maybe in another universe—one without secrets, betrayal, and family names like loaded guns—things could have been different. But then again… maybe not. Maybe we were always cursed to carry this bone-deep ache while our best friends live out their happily-ever-afters.
I glance toward the window, where soft morning light filters through sheer curtains, casting long shadows across the floorboards. Lyon stirs beneath me—the low hum of traffic, clinking cutlery in nearby cafés, the smell of bread rising from the boulangerie downstairs. It’s a city that feels like a dream stitched together with silk and steel.
But inside me, chaos stirs. A storm that won’t settle.
Matt.
His name lives in the back of my mind, haunting me like a song I heard once on the radio, one I can’t stop signing along to. His voice echoes in quiet moments, tangled in memories too soft to touch and too sharp to forget. We were doomed from the start, and we knew it.
But for a while, we loved like we didn’t care, like we were invincible.
And now we’re paying the price.
Or maybe only I am.
“Listen, at the end of the day, what more can we do?” I rub at my temple, exhausted at the prospect of revisiting a conversation we've had a hundred times this week alone. “I would have given them access to anything they wanted to prove my innocence. But they didn’t want that, Cor. They wanted an easy fix. A way to get rid of any reminders of Jen and, by extension, Angus. And if what Brennan found out about my birthfather is true? There was no way in hell I ever stood a chance.” My voice cracks, but I push through it. “And the worst part? I get it. I fuckinggetit.”
A long silence stretches, broken only by soft sighs on both ends. We’ve had this conversation before. More times than I can count.
“France is my home now,” I say, my voice barely more than a breath. “So please… can we just let it go?”
They nod, promising they’ll try. I nod back, promising I’m fine. We spin tiny white lies between us like fragile threads, each one trembling with the hope that maybe, someday, those lies will stitch themselves into truth.
When the call ends, I force myself up, pushing the weight of the past back into its cage. If I stay still too long, it’ll swallow me whole, which is something I can't afford. Not today, tomorrow, or anytime soon.
Instead, I lose myself in the ritual of getting ready—curling my hair until it tumbles in soft waves, tracing smoky liner across my lids, painting my lips a daring berry shade. The act itself is almost meditative, forcing my mind to slow, to settle in the present, to revel in the freedom of shaping myself however I choose each day.
Makeup finished, I slide into a buttery-soft baby white silk blouse and a baby pink leather midi skirt so tight it clings to my hips and ass like a second skin, leaving no room for underwear, and I shiver at the delicious defiance of it.
Looking at myself in the mirror, I look like someone who has her shit together. You’d never know I’m a few wrong moves away from spiralling. Perfect. I snap a few pictures—some for my Tempt page, some just for me—and head into the kitchen. Flicking on the old coffee machine, I step out onto my narrowbalcony. The cool iron railing bites into my palms as I look out over the streets below.
Lyon is loud and alive beneath me. I used to pray for a chance to come here, to study fashion in the city of couture, to create something that made people feel.
I thought if I could get here, I could outrun the weight of expectations and obligations.
But I never pictured coming here like this. Exiled. With no other options and no one to turn to. Since the moment I landed, I’ve been stitching together a new life one thread at a time, one untouched by bloodlines and betrayal.
I’m not the girl they cast out. Not the burden Jen left behind.
And if my stepbrother wants to keep watching me fall apart night after night, tip after tip?
