Chapter 6

I spun around and doubled back to the twelfth floor, pushing through the stairwell door into the corridor. At the far end sat a service elevator — I'd clocked it the day I moved in. It ran straight to the underground parking level.

I jabbed B1. In the three seconds before the metal doors sealed shut, I held my breath, pulse hammering so hard I could feel it in my teeth.

The elevator touched bottom. I kept my head low and moved fast through the garage, ducking out the service exit into the back alley.

The black sedan was there. Tinted windows. Engine idling.

I ran.

The rear door swung wide and a man in a dark overcoat beckoned me forward. "Get in, Miss Nighthollow."

I threw myself into the back seat. The door slammed.

Through the rear glass, I watched Damien's sentinels spill from the building entrance. One of them caught sight of the sedan —

Too late.

The car had already slipped into the current of morning traffic and dissolved.

"You're clear," the man said. "Lord Cassian sends his regards."

He passed me a new phone and a small crystal vial filled with something dark and viscous.

"Drink. It's a blood-ward tincture — masks your signature for seventy-two hours. More than enough to get beyond Ravencroft's reach."

I pulled the stopper and swallowed it in one go. Bitter enough to deaden every nerve in my tongue. Then he handed me the Nighthollow crest — a silver pendant shaped like a crescent moon threaded through a cluster of nightshade. I clasped it around my neck; the chain settled warm against my collarbone.

As the sedan merged onto the highway, I sank into the seat and released a breath I'd been holding for what felt like hours.

I was out.

But the relief barely lasted. Because I knew Damien Ravencroft better than anyone — he did not tolerate having things taken from him. Losing something and having it stolen were entirely different offenses in his mind. The first was inconceivable. The second was grounds for annihilation.

…

The plane lifted off at noon.

I watched the city contract beneath the clouds. Three years compressed to a grey smudge beyond the cabin window, and then — gone.

I turned the new phone over in my hands. No contacts. No history. A clean slate.

As if starting over were that simple.

But my thoughts kept spiraling back.

Vivienne was never the interloper. She'd been there the entire time. She was the eternity he murmured in the dark, the secret tucked behind our photograph, the blood-fated beloved he'd choose without a heartbeat's hesitation.

And what had I been? A stand-in? Someone to occupy his bed until his true consort was ready to return?

I shut my eyes and pressed my nails into my palms. The sting barely kept the heat from spilling past my lashes.

When the captain announced descent, I leaned my forehead against the window. Below stretched green hills and distant coastline — a world removed from the city's iron and glass.

Perhaps everything really could begin again.

Mom was waiting at arrivals.

She wore a navy coat, the rims of her eyes raw and red, as though sleep had eluded her all night.

"Elara." The moment she spotted me, her composure cracked. She crossed the distance in quick strides and folded me into her arms. "Thank God."

I pressed my face into her shoulder. In that moment I wasn't some High Lord's shameful secret. I was simply a daughter.

"Come on." She took my bag and steered me toward the lot.

Someone was standing by the car.

Tall. Dark hair, slightly tousled. A faint scar along the brow bone. An olive-green coat worn open, sleeves pushed to the forearms. Early thirties, with a presence that was steady and measured — nothing like Damien's blade-sharp intensity.

But I still caught it immediately — the subtle thrum of old-blood authority, deliberately held in check.

"Elara, this is Sebastian Vane." Mom's voice lifted with that unmistakable note mothers deploy when they're scheming in plain sight. "Lord of the Thornfield coven. He happened to be in the area, so he offered to drive."

Sebastian dipped his chin. He didn't step closer, didn't project a trace of dominance. "Hello, Elara."

It clicked — this was the man from the messages. The one my mother had been nudging me toward.

I glanced at her. She arched one brow, you're welcome written across every feature.

"Get in the car, sweetheart."

I drew a long breath and slid into the back seat. Sebastian took the passenger side without a word, gaze settled on the road ahead. No forced conversation, no attempt to fill the quiet.

It was unexpectedly steadying.

Twenty minutes later we pulled up to Mom's cottage. The house where I'd grown up.

Inside, nothing had changed. The stone fireplace, the shelf crowded with childhood photographs.

Mom brewed chamomile. We sat at the kitchen table — the same table where I'd done homework, sketched out my future, dreamed of becoming a model. Back when my life still tracked a course I recognized.

Mom cradled her cup and studied me. "Elara, do you remember this table? You were ten, sitting right here, when you told me you'd see every corner of the world."

I nodded, throat tight.

"And you did." She covered my hand with hers. "You've always been fearless. This is no different."

Sebastian cleared his throat quietly. "Mrs. Voss, I should head out."

"No." The word escaped before I'd thought it through. I looked at him. "Would you mind helping me with a photo?"

He blinked, then nodded. "Of course."

I handed the phone to Mom and moved to stand beside Sebastian. He paused for half a beat before resting an arm across my shoulders — barely any pressure, as though he were handling something fragile.

Mom tapped the shutter.

In the photo, we looked at ease.

I took the phone back, opened the screenshots I'd organized of my conversations with Damien, pulled up my social feed, attached the images and the photo, and began to type.

I'm announcing my permanent retirement from modeling. Thank you all for your support. Regarding the recent controversy, let me be clear: I am not some "delusional ex." The reality is straightforward — a High Lord tried to keep two women at once, and I refused.

I scrolled down, confirming every screenshot was in place —

Vivienne is merely a coven arrangement. It changes nothing between us.

Give me two years. I'll dissolve the covenant. We can make it official.

You're the only woman I want, Elara. My eternity.

I typed one final line:

I've already moved on. I'd appreciate it if Lord Ravencroft would stop interfering with my life.

My finger hovered over "Post."

I pressed it.

The post went live.

I powered down the phone, ejected the SIM, and snapped it cleanly in two.

Then I fished the boarding pass from my pocket, tore it to shreds, and dropped the pieces in the bin.

I wasn't going back. Not to the city. Not to Damien. Not to being the Elara who'd loved him like a fool.

Somewhere across the coast, Damien's phone was probably detonating right about now.

Let it.

Let every carefully constructed lie unravel in the open air.

I tipped my head back and watched afternoon light drift across the mantelpiece, falling on an old photograph — a little girl perched on a stone wall, grinning wide.

That girl hadn't been afraid of anything.

Maybe she was still in there.