Chapter 6

I turned instantly, rushed back onto the twelfth floor, shoved through the stairwell door, and ran into the corridor.

At the far end was a service elevator—I had noticed it the day I moved in.

It went straight down to the basement loading bay and garage.

I hit B2.

For the three seconds it took the metal doors to close, I held my breath so hard it felt like my heart would break my ribs.

The elevator reached the basement.

Head down, I hurried through the dim loading area and slipped out an employee exit into the back alley.

The black van was exactly where my mother said it would be.

Washington plates.

Engine idling low.

I sprinted toward it.

The sliding door opened soundlessly. A man in a dark jacket and baseball cap leaned out and waved sharply.

“Get in, Miss Visconti.”

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

Through the tinted rear glass, I saw Kylan’s enforcers burst out of the building’s back entrance. Someone pointed toward the van—

Too late.

We had already turned out of the alley and melted into the noon traffic.

“You’re safe now,” the driver said, catching my eye in the mirror. His gaze was sharp and steady. “Mr. Rafe sends his regards. Call me Graham.”

He handed me a brand-new, unopened cheap phone, plus a small bag.

“There’s cash, an unregistered credit card, and a clean driver’s license in there. Your mother’s new number is the only contact in the phone. As for your old phone and documents, best get rid of them immediately.”

I took them, pulled the SIM card from my old phone, snapped it in half, and tossed it along with my old passport into a public trash bin by the roadside.

“He’ll track transportation records—airports, train stations—”

“We’re not using those.” Graham cut me off, his tone flat but reassuring. “We have another route. Mr. Rafe arranged everything. You just need to rest.”

When the van merged onto the highway, I finally sagged into the seat and let out a breath I had been holding for far too long.

I had gotten out.

But that relief lasted only a few seconds.

Because I knew better than anyone—

Kylan Cosa was not a man who accepted loss.

To him, losing something and having something taken were two entirely different things.

The first did not exist.

The second meant war.

By evening, we switched into an ordinary family sedan driven by another silent man. Graham changed vehicles and continued following at a distance.

At midnight, we arrived at a small private airfield in the middle of nowhere.

An unmarked Cessna was waiting.

“This is the last leg.” Graham walked me to the foot of the stairs and handed me a badge—a silver emblem of an ash tree crossed with a dagger, threaded on a black leather cord.

“Wear it. In Visconti territory, no one would dare touch someone wearing that.”

I slipped it around my neck. The badge lay cool against my skin before warming with my body heat.

The plane took off.

I watched the brilliant lights of New York shrink beneath the clouds until they became a single blurred patch of glow.

Those three years of life had finally been reduced to one smudge of light outside the window.

And then—nothing.

I took out the new phone.

The screen was blank except for one unnamed contact.

As if I really could start over.

And yet my thoughts kept circling back.

Celeste had never been the intruder.

She had always been there.

She was the “my star” he might whisper in his sleep, the secret hidden behind our framed photo, the final answer he chose without hesitation—the perfect blend of interest and emotion.

So what had I been?

A placeholder?

A toy he used to ease his loneliness until the real godmother was ready?

I closed my eyes and dug my nails into my palm.

Even that sharp pain could barely keep down the heat rising behind my eyes.

When the pilot announced we were descending, I pressed my forehead to the window. Below lay deep green forests and rolling mountains, a world utterly different from New York’s steel skyline.

Portland.

Maybe everything really could begin again.

My mother was waiting at a secluded airport exit.

She wore a dark coat, her eyes red-rimmed as if she hadn’t slept all night.

“Ophilia.” The moment she saw me, her lips trembled. She rushed over and pulled me into a tight embrace. “Thank God. Thank God you made it.”

I buried my face in her shoulder.

At that moment, I wasn’t some godfather’s hidden mistress anymore.

I was just someone’s daughter.

“Come on.” She took my backpack and led me toward the parking lot.

A man stood by the car.

Tall. Dark brown hair. A faint old scar near his brow. An olive field jacket with the sleeves rolled up, exposing strong forearms.

Early thirties. His presence was restrained and steady—completely different from Kylan’s sharp, aggressive force.

And yet I caught it instantly—that quiet authority, deliberately muted, that only came from years in command.

“Ophilia, this is Felix Sterling.” My mother’s tone carried unmistakable, not very subtle matchmaking energy. “The young godfather of the Sterling family. He happened to be in Portland on business, so he came by to pick us up.”

Felix gave me a small nod.

He didn’t step too close. He didn’t posture.

“Hello, Ophilia.” His voice was calm.

I blinked, then realized—this was the man my mother had wanted me to meet before. The godfather of the Sterling family.

I looked at her.

She simply blinked back, her expression practically spelling out: you’re welcome.

“Get in, baby.”

I took a deep breath and slid into the back seat. Felix got into the front passenger seat without a word, simply looking ahead at the road.

No awkward small talk. No attempt to fill the silence.

Oddly, that quiet made me feel safe.

Twenty minutes later, the car stopped in front of my mother’s house.

The place where I had grown up.

Inside, everything was the same.

Wood-burning fireplace.

Shelves full of my childhood photos.

My mother made tea.

We sat at the kitchen table—the same one where I had done homework as a child, planned my future, dreamed of one day opening my own gallery.

Back then, my life had still been my own.

My mother wrapped both hands around her tea cup and looked at me.

“Ophilia, do you remember this table? When you were ten, you sat right here and said that one day you’d have your own career and never let anyone control you.”

I nodded, throat tight.

“And then you did it. You almost lost it, but you did it.” She took my hand, her palm warm. “But you’ve always been brave. This time won’t be any different. You’ll take back everything that’s yours—everything truly yours.”

Felix cleared his throat softly.

“Mrs. Gray, I should probably be going.”

“Don’t.”

The word came out before I could stop it. I turned to him.

“Could you take a picture for me?”

He paused, then nodded.

“Of course.”

I handed the new phone to my mother and went to stand beside him.

He hesitated for half a second, then rested his arm lightly along the back of the chair behind me—barely daring to touch me, his posture polite and restrained.

My mother snapped the picture.

We looked like ordinary friends.

Or maybe a man and a woman only just beginning to get to know each other.

I took the phone back, pulled up the screenshots of my chats with Kylan I had backed up in advance, selected the photo we had just taken, logged into a brand-new social account with no history, and began typing.

**I am formally announcing my withdrawal from all business and social engagements previously connected to the Cosa family. As for the recent rumors, I would like to clarify this much: I am not some “obsessive ex.” The truth is simple—a man wanted both a legal marriage and an underground lover, and I refused.**

I scrolled down, making sure I had selected the correct screenshots—

**Celeste is only a family arrangement. It changes nothing between us.**

**Give me two years. I’ll void the contract. Then we can go public.**

**You are the only woman I want, Ophilia. The only woman I love.**

Then I typed the final line:

**I have already begun a new life. I hope Godfather Cosa will honor the rules of the game and stop interfering with my freedom.**

My finger hovered over Post.

Then I pressed it.

The post went live.

I powered off the phone, removed the temporary SIM, snapped it in half, and tossed it into the trash.

Then I took the boarding pass stub from my pocket, tore it to pieces, and threw that away too.

I wasn’t going back.

Not to New York.

Not to Kylan.

And not to the version of Ophilia who had loved him so stupidly and waited for him to grant her a place.

Right now, Kylan’s phone back in New York was probably exploding.

Let it.

Let every lie he built collapse under public scrutiny.

I tipped my head back and looked at the sunlight falling across the mantel, illuminating an old photo—a little girl in the woods, grinning wildly, sprawled across a fallen pine trunk as if she had conquered the whole world.

That little girl had never been afraid of anything.

Maybe she was still there.