Chapter 3

Flowerind was a city steeped in traditional vibes. The air was thick with the smell of coffee, the rich scent of leather, and a hint of oil paint lingering everywhere.

I found myself a place with a terrace right by the Oweno River. Every morning, the church bells and the calls of waterbirds would wake me up.

I didn't reach out to anyone back home, including my dad. I knew he was probably losing his mind over the Evans Corporation's stock price, or cursing me out for being such an "ungrateful daughter."

But honestly, so what? Ever since my mom passed away and my stepmom moved in, that place stopped feeling like home. My dad only ever cared about the Evans family's interests, never about my happiness.

I wasted no time signing up for a short-term restoration course at the Flowerind Academy of Fine Arts. This had been my dream since I was little.

Back in college, I wanted to major in art history, but my dad forced me into finance, saying, "Girls shouldn't waste time on those airy-fairy things. You'll get married, and you need to know how to support your husband's family."

Later, when I was with Andrew, he kept me as his pet. He'd praise my taste, but never supported me having a career of my own. He liked me quiet and pretty, locked away in the luxurious cage he built as a beautiful, useless ornament.

I once overheard Andrew say that about a friend of mine who wanted to start her own business. "A woman's worth is in taking care of her husband and raising kids.

"Why bother with a career or putting yourself out there? Isn't that making a spectacle of yourself?"

Back then, I thought he was old-fashioned. But now, I realized he was only trying to wear down every bit of who I was, clip my wings, and make me totally reliant on him, so I'd never be able to break free.

Now, I could finally live for myself.

Restoring old paintings took endless patience and focus. Every day, I'd pull on my white lab coat, put on my magnifying glasses, and use the finest brush to gently clean away the grime and fill in the cracks that time had left behind.

Those battered, dust-covered canvases slowly regained their brilliance in my hands, like I was slowly coming back to life myself. The process soothed the wounds inside me.

For once, my world wasn't full of those nagging thoughts. I finally had something I could throw myself into completely.

My mentor was an old Italian man named Andretti. He was eccentric, but a true master of his craft.

He rarely praised anyone, but after one class, he patted me on the shoulder. "Charlotte, you've got real talent. Your hands were made for a paintbrush, not a diamond ring."

In that moment, my eyes burned, and I nearly teared up.

When I wasn't in class, I spent all my free time wandering through art galleries and museums.

I could stand in front of Botticelli's Primavera for hours, completely mesmerized. I'd drift through the endless corridors of the Riroaz Gallery, feeling as if the heartbeat and breath of the old masters still lingered in the air.

My mind-reading ability would kick in every now and then.

In the middle of a crowd, I'd catch impatient thoughts like, 'What's so special about this painting? I'd rather go shopping.'

Or in a luxury boutique, I'd hear salespeople thinking to themselves, 'She looks so plain. No way she can afford anything here. Don't waste your time.'

But those voices couldn't hurt me anymore. I'd learned to block them out, or smile and let them go. When one's heart was full and strong enough, the noise from the outside world was only noise.

Life here felt calm and full. I started posting snapshots of Flowerind and my own artwork on social media. I kept my identity to myself, another art student living overseas.

Little by little, my account drew in some followers. They loved how I played with light in my photos and the stories I told through my art.

We'd swap thoughts in the comments about a painter's technique or the history behind some old building. This kind of honest, hobby-driven connection brought me warmth and kindness I hadn't felt in a long time.

*****

I thought my life would stay peaceful like this forever. But then, that day at a sidewalk café in Piazza Canta Sroce, I heard that voice, the one that always makes my skin crawl, again.

It was a perfect afternoon, the sun shining right. I'd finished class and was sketching a kid feeding pigeons in the square.

A stylish woman in oversized sunglasses, hooked onto a guy's arm, sat down at the table next to mine.

Her voice was syrupy sweet, with that obvious, show-off tone. "Andrew, look at this sunshine. See? I told you, leaving that awful place and getting out here was the best thing we could've done."

Andrew? My hand froze around the charcoal pencil, and the tip scratched an ugly black streak across the paper.

I slowly looked up, glancing at the table right next to mine.

Even with the sunglasses and his profile looking worn out, I recognized him in an instant. It was Andrew.

And when the woman next to him took off her sunglasses, I recognized her instantly. It was the same person I'd seen plastered on Andrew's phone wallpaper, Sophie.

My heart tightened, not out of any leftover feelings, but from a gut-level disgust, as I'd stumbled across something dirty and rotten.

How the hell were they here?

I instinctively tugged my hat lower, relieved I'd gone with a plain outfit and skipped makeup today.

Andrew looked exhausted, barely responding with a distracted nod.

Inside, his thoughts were a storm of frustration and anxiety. 'Relax? My company's in chaos, the stock's in free fall, and the board is practically staging a coup every day.

'How am I supposed to sit here and enjoy the sun? If Sophie hadn't insisted on coming out, I wouldn't have left at all.'

Sophie, completely oblivious to his mood, picked up the menu and cooed in a showy, sugary voice, "I want the most expensive champagne, and some caviar too. Oh, and let's go shopping later. I've got my eye on a new bag."

Andrew's frown only deepened.

Andrew thought, 'Bags, bags, bags? Does she ever think about anything besides shopping and spending money?

'The company's cash flow is on the brink, and she's still throwing money around like it's nothing. Was I blind, thinking she was somehow better than Charlotte?'

I nearly laughed out loud.

He deserved it. The girl he once worshipped for being wild and hot had now become, in his eyes, another reckless spender.

Meanwhile, Sophie was flipping through the menu, plotting her own little schemes. Her inner monologue was more ruthless and shameless than Andrew's.

Sophie scoffed to herself, 'This loser actually thinks I love him? Please. If it weren't for his cash, I wouldn't bother dealing with him at all.

'His company's circling the drain? It's better. I need to milk him for everything he's got before he goes broke.

'I already got the password to his Richland bank account last time. Once I move the money, I'm flying straight to Lorwand and leaving him to clean up his own mess.

'With his money, I'll buy myself a beachfront villa in Lorwand and keep a few young, hot guys around. That's way better than sticking with this frazzled, middle-aged mess.'

I picked up my coffee and took a sip, trying to cover up the cold, mocking smile tugging at my lips. What a show.

I thought that once I left that city, I'd be done with all those toxic people and their drama for good. All I wanted was a quiet life for myself.

But now, since they had come knocking and handed me such a juicy script, it'd be a crime not to play along.

Andrew still hadn't settled the score for the humiliation he put me through.

Sophie really thought she could climb over me to the top and then drain Andrew dry before vanishing?

The world didn't hand out freebies like that.

I set my coffee down, pulled out my phone, and, keeping a straight face, quietly hit the record button.

Then I shifted my angle to make sure they were in the frame. Without their faces, their figures and outfits were unmistakable proof of who they were.

A meticulously planned revenge was beginning beneath the warm Flowerind sun.

When one gazed into the abyss, the abyss gazed right back. But if one was more ruthless than the abyss, it had to yield to one.