Chapter 3
In Saint-Anne, a quiet corner of Prytham, Zoey lived at the very end of a cobblestone alley, up on the fourth floor of a walk-up with no elevator.
Her place was tiny. Around 200 square feet. Barely big enough for a bed, a table, and a wardrobe. If two people tried to stand inside, they'd be bumping elbows.
But she absolutely adored it. Open the window, and right across the street was a bakery with a red-and-white striped awning. Every morning, the smell of fresh baguettes drifted in.
A little farther off, she could spot the colorful pipes of the Montfort Cultural Center, and there were always young people in the square, playing guitar, painting, or making out without a care in the world.
When she first got to Prytham, she couldn't speak a word of local language.
She couldn't understand a thing in class, so she'd come home and replay the recordings over and over, looking up every single word in the dictionary. By the end of her first semester, her notes were thicker than the textbooks. Every page was covered in highlighter and sticky notes.
When exam day came, she sat in the back row, lingering over the test paper, her eyes drifting across the questions.
The questions were tough, but she found herself understanding every single one.
Right then, Timothy's words popped into her head. "You're strong. You're good at everything."
"Yeah. That's right," she told herself. "I really am good at everything."
She wrote the first word on the test paper, her hand steady.
*****
The next year, she changed tracks and switched her major to design.
Everyone said she was crazy. She was cruising through her architecture master's, and now she was dropping it halfway to study design. She was basically wasting two years just like that.
She didn't bother explaining.
Only she knew that when she was applying for college, she'd wanted to go for fashion design, but Timothy had talked her into architecture instead. He said they'd open a firm together one day.
She followed his advice.
Now, she wanted to listen to herself.
On her first day in the new major, her professor was a woman in her sixties, with graying hair and oversized metal earrings. Her first words were, "Who here thinks they're talented?"
No one raised their hand.
The professor smiled, "Good. Talent is worthless. Hard work is what counts."
Zoey scribbled two words in her notebook: [Hard work.]
For the next two years, she barely slept five hours a day. She spent her days in class and her nights sketching in the studio. On weekends, she scoured fabric markets, visited museum exhibits, and watched people on the streets to see what everyone was wearing.
One time, after pulling three all-nighters in a row, she crashed right there on the studio floor. When she woke up, she was wrapped in an old coat. Her professor was sitting nearby, sipping coffee.
"You were dreaming," her professor remarked.
"What?" Zoey asked.
"You were mumbling in your sleep. A name, Gibson, or something like that."
Zoey paused for a moment, then sat up. "What did I say?"
"Couldn't catch it. It was in your language." The professor shrugged. "Boyfriend, maybe?"
"No," Zoey replied.
"Ex, then?" the professor said.
Zoey kept silent.
The professor smiled and set down her coffee cup. "He must be a real jerk."
"How can you tell?" Zoey asked.
"If a girl wears herself out in a foreign country until she collapses, and she's still calling his name in her sleep, chances are he's bad news," the professor said, getting to her feet. "Come on, get up. I looked over your design draft. It's pretty good."
Pretty good. Coming from her professor, that was about as high as praise got.
That year, she scored the sole internship slot at Chanel out of the entire school.
*****
On graduation day, Zoey's professor handed her a card with one sentence written on it: [Le meilleur est à venir.] It means that the best is yet to come.
Zoey slipped the card into her wallet, tucking it right behind her ID.
That year, she was 26.
The day she flew back, her flight was delayed, and she ended up waiting at the airport for four hours.
Her phone blew up with dozens of messages.
Her parents wanted to know when she'd land. Her company asked if she needed a ride and how much luggage she had. Her college friends were already talking about throwing her a welcome party.
There was also a text from an unknown number: [Welcome back. I heard you snagged an international design award. So proud of you. Got time to catch up? From Timothy]
Zoey just stared at that text for what felt like forever.
Her finger hovered for a second, then she pressed delete. No hesitation.
The plane touched down at three in the afternoon.
The sky over Riverview City was a dull gray. The air was thick with familiar smells—exhaust, dust, and a hint of dampness from the river.
Zoey rolled her suitcase out of arrivals and immediately spotted the driver holding up a sign.
On it, her name was printed. Just plain Zoey Sutton. No fancy titles, no nicknames. Just her real name. That was her own request.
The company had sent a black Mercedes. The driver, a quiet man in his forties, loaded up her luggage and asked, "Ms. Sutton, do you want to head to the office first or go home?"
"Office first," Zoey said.
The driver froze, but didn't ask anything else. He just started the car.
Zoey stared out the window.
Three years had changed Riverview City a lot.
There were new overpasses, shiny new malls, and freshly planted green belts. Some of the streets she used to know so well were almost unrecognizable now. Only when a familiar landmark popped up did her memories click into place.
As they passed a certain intersection, she suddenly said, "Stop here."