Chapter 8
Zurich is clean.
The air tastes like snow and money.
It is the polar opposite of New York.
I sat in a small cafe near the Limmat River, watching the swans drift lazily on the water.
My leg was still in a brace, but the pain was manageable.
It was the phantom pain in my chest that kept me awake at night.
I had a new name: Elena Rossi.
I had a new face, thanks to a severe haircut and a pair of thick-rimmed glasses.
And I had a job.
Ansel Acosta didn't ask questions.
He was a legend in the architectural world. A neutral party. His family had money as old as the mountains, and wisely, they stayed out of the bloody politics of the mob.
He hired me based on my portfolio. The one I had sent anonymously.
"Your lines are angry," he had said during my interview, tracing a blueprint with a long finger. "But your structures are safe. You build fortresses, Ms. Rossi."
"I value security," I had replied.
Now, I sat with a box of old photos-fragments of a life Ayla had managed to salvage and mail to me.
I shouldn't have opened it.
It was Pandora's box.
There was a photo of me and Emilio at our engagement party.
He was looking at me with that intense, possessive stare.
I used to think it was love.
Ferocious Protectiveness. That's what I had called it.
I picked up a letter tucked beneath the photograph. It was from my old professor at the university.
Dear Elana, I'm afraid I cannot recommend you for the internship in Paris. It seems your fiancé has already arranged a position for you locally...
I froze.
The words blurred before my eyes.
I remembered that rejection. I had cried for days.
Emilio had held me. He had told me Paris was dangerous. He had told me I could build my dreams right here in New York.
He didn't protect me.
He clipped my wings.
He had sabotaged my career before it even started so he could keep his pretty bird in his gilded cage.
He manipulated my mentor. He engineered my choices.
Every "sacrifice" he made for me was actually a shackle he placed on my wrists.
I felt sick, bile rising in my throat.
The romance was a lie. The "power couple" narrative was a script he wrote and I merely acted out.
"Are you okay?"
I looked up, startled.
Ansel was standing there. He was holding two coffees.
He was tall, with kind eyes and hands that looked like they built things rather than destroyed them.
"I'm fine," I said, quickly shoving the photo back into the box.
"You don't look fine," he said, his voice calm but firm. He sat down opposite me. "You look like you just realized the earth is flat."
"Something like that," I muttered, my hands trembling.
"Burn it," he said.
"What?"
"Whatever is in that box. Whatever is making you look like you want to jump into the river. Burn it."
I looked at him, stunned by his bluntness.
"It's my past," I said.
"You're not a historian, Elana," he said softly. He used my real name. He knew. He had always known. "You're an architect. You build new things. You don't live in ruins."
He reached across the table and touched my hand.
His skin was warm, grounding me.
"You are not a puppet," he said, his gaze piercing through my lenses. "You are a Queen. Act like it."
I looked at the box.
Then I looked at the fireplace crackling in the corner of the cafe.
Ansel was right.
I stood up.
I walked to the fire, the heat flushing against my cheeks.
I tossed the engagement photo in.
I watched Emilio's face curl, blacken, and turn to ash.
I didn't feel sad.
I felt lighter.
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