Chapter 14

The sun dappled through the garden in Favalon, where I was pruning roses, my white dress swaying in the breeze. Out of nowhere, the comments flickered across my vision.

[Dominic's tearing Aurora apart…]

[All for Clara! Aurora had it coming for messing with her.]

[Heard her voice is gone for good—she'll never speak again.]

I paused, then calmly set down the shears and sank into a wicker chair, cradling a cup of tea. The breeze carried the scent of flowers, and I gazed at the rolling hills. The comments flared again, then faded to nothing.

I pushed open the villa's windows, letting sunlight flood the wooden floors, warming them to a golden glow. Barefoot, I stepped outside to water the roses I'd planted.

[No way Clara's really staying gone, right?]

[Dominic's a mess—drinking all day, ignoring the pack office.]

[Clara's stone-cold for this…]

The words flashed by. I paused, sighed, and set down the watering can, heading back inside.

For six months, those comments had trailed me like a shadow, feeding me updates on Dominic—how he cut ties with Aurora, how he mirrored her cruelty to pay her back, how he drowned himself in liquor night after night. They seemed convinced I'd soften and run back to him. But I ignored them, pouring myself into my new life.

I'd learned to bake croissants, to paint Favalon's sunsets in acrylics, even to patch a leaky roof. The comments came less often now, sometimes not at all, as if distance had frayed whatever tethered them to me.

Then came a rainy evening. Umbrella in hand, I trudged back from the market and spotted a figure hunched by my gate, soaked through, golden hair plastered to his forehead like some abandoned mutt.

"Hey?" I stopped a couple yards off, my fingers brushing the pepper spray in my bag.

He looked up, mud-streaked face breaking into a grin, blue eyes piercing the rain. "Thank God! Someone's here!" he said. "My wallet and phone got jacked. Can I borrow yours to make a call?"

I hesitated, then nodded. "Come in."

The fireplace crackled as he warmed up. "Oliver Green," he said, wrapped in a blanket, sipping tea. "I was hiking through southern France, but day one, and…" He gestured helplessly. "Thanks for this. I'd be sleeping under a bridge otherwise."

I slid him a plate of fresh bread. "What'd the enforcers say?"

He scratched his head, flashing a sheepish grin. "They took a report, but you know how it is with small stuff…"

Silence settled. I noticed his worn-out backpack, his boots peeling at the soles. Yet he radiated a sunny energy, like a sunflower stretching toward the light.

"So…" Oliver set down his cup, clasping his hands. "I've got a big ask."

I leaned back slightly.

"Can I crash here? Just a few days! I'll mow the lawn, fix stuff, cook—I make a killer shepherd's pie. Soon as my buddy sends money, I'm gone!"

I frowned, and he rushed on. "I'll sleep in the shed! Or pitch a tent in the yard!"

[This new guy's so bright… kinda likable.]

[No way! Clara's for Dominic!]

The comments jolted me. Oliver, thinking I was about to say no, visibly deflated, his golden hair seeming to lose its shine.

He reminded me of the neighbor's golden retriever from when I was a pup, always bounding over with a ball in its mouth.

"There's a small attic upstairs," I heard myself say.

His eyes lit up. "You mean it? You're an angel! You'll be the happiest landlord ever! Want me to trim the bushes now, or—"

"Stop." I laughed. "Eat first."

Over dinner, Oliver rambled about getting lost in the Himalayas and dodging piranhas in the Amazon. His grin was so bright I didn't notice the comments only popped up once, then stayed quiet.

That night, I lay in bed, hearing Oliver's off-key singing drift from the attic. Moonlight spilled through the curtains, casting shadows on the floor. For the first time in six months, I fell asleep without thinking of that name.