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And then I see him.

Alaric.

Standing outside the pickup truck wearing a crisp dark suit.

He’s wearing black sunglasses that make him even more handsome than he usually is, but there’s no denying his eyes are fixed on the healer’s house.

He has a phone against his ear, and if he turned in my direction, we would lock eyes.

And if we did, I don’t think my heart could take his cold stare and the words he threw at me in accusation. Because even now, I can hear those haunting words, and they make my chest feel tighter than usual.

My stomach twists, the same nausea I felt in his penthouse hitting me a hundredfold. I try to force a breath past the knot in my throat, even though all I want to do is to disappear.

Alaric Hells made me feel minuscule and used.

All those memories of the pain he caused?

They go right for my heart and destroy me.

I can’t let him see me.

I can’t…I can't face the humiliation again.

More than that, only a naive person would think that she would find her family based on a random picture. It was stupid for me to come here, and it’s an even dumber idea to face the man who ripped my heart to shreds.

Fumbling for my keys, I yank my car door open and slip inside. My hands shake as I grip the steering wheel.

One last glance at him. One last memory of the man who hurt me.

Then my foot slams on the gas.

I don’t look back.

He never sees me.

I drive until the city is nothing but a blur in my rearview mirror.

I need a fresh start, one far away from this place, from these ghosts, from the life that has only ever brought me pain.

The town humswith life outside the window. Car horns, distant chatter, the faint melody of a street musician playing for coinson the corner. It all filters inside my little apartment, a cramped one-bedroom with peeling paint, a leaky faucet, and a heater that only works when it wants to. The walls are thin enough that I can hear my neighbor singing off-key every morning, and the pipes groan like an old man clearing his throat every time I turn on the shower.

It’s nothing special, but it’s mine.

I grip the edge of my sink with one hand, my knuckles turn white as I steady myself.

It’s been thirty-two days since I left New York.

Thirty-two days since I abandoned my search for the truth. Since I drove out of the city with no real destination in mind but the overwhelming need to disappear.

The first few nights, I slept in my car at gas stations, too afraid to stop moving. I told myself I’d go somewhere new, somewhere I could start over. Eventually, my dwindling cash pushed me to make a choice, and Fair Haven was as good a place as any.

It’s a quiet town. A little too polished, too perfect, like something from a postcard. The people here are the type of welcoming folk who smile at you when they pass you on the sidewalk. The streets are lined with flower boxes, and there’s a farmers’ market that everyone in town seems to flock to. Fair Haven is the kind of town where nothing really happens, and that’s what I was aiming for.

I found a job within the first week. Nothing really fancy—just a cafe bookstore that smelled like old paper and freshly brewed coffee. The work was easy, and I spent my days stacking books, making drinks, wiping down counters, and engaging with customers.

At night, I went home to my tiny apartment, curled up on my secondhand couch, and watched whatever late-night sitcomswere on until exhaustion took over me. I told myself I was fine. That I was doing okay.

But then the exhaustion started hitting harder. The nausea came in second, subtle at first, then worse.