Chapter 6
Lesly froze, clearly not expecting that kind of reaction from me.
Her grip on Frankie's arm tightened—a silent, desperate claim of ownership.
"Eloise, why the name change?" she asked with a faux smile, her voice dripping with mock concern. "And pretending not to know Frankie... Are things not going too well for you lately?"
Bentley stepped in at just the right moment, his voice gentle but unmistakably distant.
"Mr. Browning, Miss Howe, it seems you may have some personal matters to discuss—but this is an active exhibition, and Carlee still has other guests to attend to. Perhaps..."
He gestured toward the crowd, polite yet firm, his elegance laced with pressure.
Frankie's stare burned into my skin, unwavering and scorching.
His lips pressed into a thin, unforgiving line, jaw clenched tight.
The air around him dropped several degrees, charged with low, smothering tension.
And then, he said nothing.
He simply looked at me—long and deep, with a storm of emotions that refused to settle: shock, scrutiny, anger.
And then something else—something almost humiliated, like a man caught off guard, stripped of control.
Then he turned sharply on his heel.
The movement stirred a gust of cold air.
Lesly stumbled after him, nearly twisting her ankle in her heels.
"Frankie! Wait for me!" she called out, scrambling behind him.
The two of them vanished into the sea of well-dressed strangers.
All that remained in their wake was a thick, awkward silence.
Bentley looked at me again, a flicker of concern in his eyes.
"Carlee, are you alright?" he asked.
I took a deep breath, forcing down the swirling chaos inside me.
My nails dug into my palm as I held my smile.
"I'm fine, Mr. Butler. Shall we go back to discussing our collaboration?"
Laurel rushed to my side, grabbing my hand.
Her palm was slick with sweat. "Eloise..."
"I'm fine," I said softly, squeezing her hand in return, trying to reassure her with a glance.
I really was.
Though something deep in my chest felt like it had just been slammed by a wrecking ball.
It ached.
But more than anything, I felt tired.
It was over.
It had to come. I just never thought it would come like this.
To see him again, not as Eloise, but as Carlee... maybe that was for the best.
Eloise was gone, and the dead deserve to rest.
The exhibition wrapped up.
Bentley's interest was solidified, and it was a major win for me.
Laurel drove me home, ranting the entire ride.
"Frankie's a damn psycho. And that snake Lesly—who the hell do they think they are with that fake polite act?" she said.
"Eloise, you were epic back there. 'I'm Carlee Steele, the designer'—God, you should've seen Frankie's face! Like he swallowed a fly. So satisfying." she yelled.
I leaned back against the seat, watching the night blur past the window, exhaustion rising like a tide.
"Epic?" I said with a faint smile. "I just don't want anything to do with them anymore."
"Exactly," Laurel agreed, slapping the steering wheel. "You're Carlee now. A badass designer with a badass little boy. Let those two choke on it."
The mention of Cristian softened something inside me.
"Yeah. Let's go home."
Back to that tiny apartment bathed in sunlight and hope.
Our kind neighbor had already picked Cristian up from preschool.
He was sitting on the carpet, completely focused on stacking his blocks.
When he heard the door open, he looked up instantly.
Those sparkling eyes lit up.
"Mom!" he squealed, dropping his blocks and running at me with his tiny legs.
I knelt down and pulled him into my arms, his warm, milky scent instantly melting all the tension in me.
Every ounce of exhaustion, anxiety, and fear vanished in that hug.
"Sweetheart, did you have fun at school today?"
"Yup!" he chirped, kissing my cheek loudly. "The teacher taught us a song! I'll sing it for you!"
He started singing, swaying back and forth, his soft voice filling the little room.
And it filled my heart.
This was my whole world.
Everything else—truly—meant nothing.
But, even though I longed for peace, the world refused to let me rest.
The next morning, after dropping Cristian off at preschool, I came home and was just settling in to sketch.
The doorbell rang.
I figured it was Laurel or a delivery.
But when I peeked through the peephole, my blood ran cold.
It was Frankie, alone.
He was wearing a perfectly tailored charcoal coat, tall as ever, but with a shadow over him that didn't belong to expensive clothes.
How did he find this place?
Why was he here?
My mind raced with questions, each one louder than the last.
I held my breath, pressed my back to the door, frozen.
Maybe if I stayed quiet, he'd think no one was home and leave.
The doorbell rang again—twice, stubborn and steady.
Then came his voice, absolutely unyielding.
"Eloise," he said through the door, "open up."
And I knew there was no hiding now.