Chapter 5
Frankie wore a jet-black bespoke suit, standing tall with such commanding presence that everyone else around him faded into the background.
It had been years.
His features were more chiseled, his eyes colder.
Right now, those eyes, once filled with nothing but indifference toward me, were locked onto mine.
To be precise, they were locked on the sight of me exchanging contact info with Bentley.
Shock, confusion, and something else swirled in his gaze—something fierce and unmistakable, something I'd never seen in him before. I wondered if it was possessiveness.
Clinging tightly to his arm was Lesly, flawless in full makeup and the latest haute couture.
She saw me, too.
Her eyes widened in disbelief, then twisted into open hostility and venomous jealousy.
My fingertips turned ice cold.
The reunion came too fast, too suddenly.
Just when I thought life was finally settling and caught the faintest glimpse of hope, fate bared its teeth once more.
Bentley noticed the shift in my expression and the oppressive stares coming from across the room.
He followed my gaze, brows subtly furrowing.
"Carlee," he said under his breath, "do you know Mr. Browning?"
In Fastain City, there was only Frankie who went by that title.
Snapping back to reality, I clenched my palm, letting the sharp pain pull me back into control.
"I don't," I replied calmly, turning to Bentley with the most professional smile I could muster. "Shall we continue, Mr. Butler?"
Bentley glanced at me, then at Frankie's glacial aura, but said nothing more.
"Of course," he nodded.
But clearly, Frankie wasn't about to let my 'I don't know him' stand.
He took a step forward, heading straight for my booth.
Lesly staggered, caught off guard by his sudden movement, her expression morphing from vicious to stunned, even panicked.
"Frankie? What's wrong?" she asked sweetly, trying to tug his sleeve.
He didn't seem to hear her.
His gaze had locked onto me like a hawk zeroing in on prey, cutting clean through the crowd.
Each stride carried an oppressive force.
The air around us seemed to freeze.
Conversations, music—everything faded into background static.
My heart pounded like a war drum.
Laurel spotted him, her face draining of color as she started toward me, trying to shield me.
I shook my head slightly.
There was no hiding.
What was meant to come, always came.
Frankie stopped right in front of my booth.
His tall figure cast a shadow that swallowed me whole.
That familiar blend of cedar and smoke hit me like a slap—his scent—so painfully specific, it yanked old memories from the grave.
He looked down.
His eyes scanned the pieces in my display case.
That stare—sharp enough to slice through pretense—lingered over each design.
And then, it returned to my face.
What I saw in his eyes wasn't just recognition, but something deeper, as if he was trying to peel away every layer of who I'd become.
His lips parted.
His voice came low, slightly hoarse. "Eloise Steele."
It wasn't a question but confirmation.
And those syllables shattered the fragile calm I had fought so hard to build.
Lesly appeared beside him, shooting a cold glance at me.
"Well, well," she said in that shrill, syrupy voice, laced with mocking surprise. "It really is you, Eloise? I almost didn't recognize you. What are you doing here... selling trinkets?"
Her words stomped all over the three years I'd spent clawing my way back up.
Bentley's frown deepened.
Laurel opened her mouth, ready to strike back.
But I beat her to it.
I lifted my head and met Frankie's cold eyes and Lesly's undisguised spite.
And with the same poised, detached smile I wore for clients, I spoke calmly and evenly. "Good afternoon, sir. Ma'am. I'm Carlee Steele, the designer. Are you perhaps interested in my work?"
I was Carlee Steele, not Eloise Steele.
The Eloise who once loved Frankie to the point of self-destruction—the Eloise who was trampled beneath his silence and Lesly's arrogance—was long gone.
She died the day she signed those divorce papers.
She died in that delivery room, soaked in tears and sweat.
She died in all those nights spent sketching through exhaustion, raising a child alone.
The woman standing here now was Carlee, who lived only for herself and her son.
Frankie's eyes widened like he'd been struck.
He stared at me, stunned, as if seeing me for the first time—only now realizing that the woman before him no longer glowed for him.
The fear and fragility he once found so convenient had been burned away, leaving behind a cold, polished calm: unyielding, and utterly unreachable.
All that remained was a cold, polished calm—unyielding, and unreachable.