Chapter 2

Years passed. The world believed Ava, the tragic artist, had died in a fire that consumed her studio, a final, desperate act of a woman who couldn' t bear to live with her disfigurement. The news reported it as a suicide. Noah played the part of the grieving fiancé perfectly, his tearful interviews winning him an outpouring of public sympathy.

Six months later, he married Chloe in a lavish ceremony, presenting their son, Ethan, to the world as a symbol of their new beginning, a light born from his immense sorrow. He became a philanthropist, his company' s stock soaring on the back of his carefully crafted image as a man of integrity and compassion.

But I was not dead. I was in a different country, under a different name. The fire was my own creation, a way to escape the prison Noah had designed for me. The evidence I left behind, the carefully leaked recording of his conversation with Liam, had been dismissed by the police as a fabrication by a mentally unstable woman. Noah' s lawyers and PR team were too powerful. They buried the truth.

So I buried Ava.

I underwent countless surgeries. My new face was a stranger' s, a composite of angles and planes that held no memory of the girl who loved a monster. The scars remained, a faint, silvery web around my eyes and along my jaw, but I didn't hide them. They were a part of my new identity. I was no longer Ava, the naive artist. I was Helena, a sharp, unsparing art critic whose critiques could make or break a career. My eye for truth, once applied to canvas and color, was now turned to the art world, and it was just as unforgiving.

Tonight, I was back. Back in the city that had tried to erase me. I stood in a crowded, glittering art gallery, a glass of champagne in my hand. The event was a charity auction, and the host, the man of the hour, was none other than Noah.

I watched him from across the room. He was older, with a touch of gray at his temples that he probably thought made him look distinguished. He moved through the crowd with the same easy charisma, shaking hands, smiling his perfect, false smile. Beside him was Chloe, dripping in diamonds, her hand possessively on his arm. And a little behind them, a quiet boy with wide, nervous eyes stood awkwardly. Ethan.

My gaze lingered on the boy. He was an innocent pawn in all of this, a tool his parents used to sell their story. I felt a pang of something, not quite pity, but a cold recognition of another victim.

"His collection is rather pedestrian, don' t you think?" A voice beside me startled me.

I turned. An older gentleman with a kind face smiled at me. "He buys names, not art. All for show."

I allowed a small, cool smile. "Philanthropy is often the last refuge of a scoundrel, isn' t it?"

The man chuckled. "You must be Helena. I' ve read your columns. Brutally honest. It' s refreshing."

As we spoke, my eyes stayed locked on Noah. He was making his way through the crowd, his path inevitably leading him toward my section of the room. My heart was a steady, hard drum against my ribs. This was it. The first move.

He finally stood before a large abstract painting near me, making a show of studying it. Chloe was chattering in his ear about its value.

"It' s a bold piece," I said, my voice clear and carrying in the relative quiet around the artwork. "It speaks of a deep, internal conflict. A struggle between the polished surface and the chaos underneath."

Noah turned, his eyes skimming over me with polite interest, the kind he gave to any wealthy donor. He didn' t recognize me. Of course he didn' t. That girl was gone.

"An interesting take," he said, his smile practiced. "I' m Noah."

"I know who you are," I replied, my gaze direct. "Everyone does. The question is, does the art know who you are?"

His smile faltered for a fraction of a second. A flicker of confusion crossed his face. Chloe looked at me with open annoyance, as if I were a bug she wanted to swat.

"I' m sorry?" Noah asked.

"Art has a way of revealing the truth," I continued, taking a small step closer. I looked from him to the painting. "It doesn' t care about your public image or your carefully constructed narrative. It sees the rot. And this artist, whoever they are, sees it too."

A tense silence fell between us. His eyes narrowed slightly, searching my face. For a moment, just a moment, I saw a flicker of unease, a ghost of a memory trying to surface. He felt something, a disjointed familiarity he couldn't place.

"Well," he said, forcing a laugh. "You certainly have a unique perspective."

"It' s my job," I said, my smile never reaching my eyes. "I see things others miss."

I turned and walked away, leaving him standing there, his perfect evening momentarily disrupted. It was a small thing, a tiny crack in his pristine facade.

But it was a start. And I was just getting started.