CHAPTER 5

Melody Peltz was dead. At least, in every way that mattered. Her name had changed, her world had quieted, and the war drums of her past had been smothered beneath layers of calm, delicate, intentional calm. She took a new identity, someone different than who she was, yet similar in the ways that mattered. Pearl Miller was tucked inside a modest walk-up apartment on Bellvine Street with her four-year-old daughter, Juno. The name change wasn’t just about safety, it was survival. It was the only way to exist after what she left behind. The girl before, Melody, had been broken by the system by power, lies, and a betrayal that should have ended her. Now she’s Pearl Miller. She worked as the assistant curator at Bridge Gallery, a small, nonprofit art space nestled quietly in the Industrial District. It was just obscure enough to keep her invisible, just noble enough to feed her spirit. The whitewashed brick walls, the scent of canvas and varnish, the hushed, holy silence that came with new exhibitions, this was her sanctuary. Pearl had made a home of smallness. She no longer ran in the circles of the elite, no longer brushed shoulders with billionaires or gave press interviews. Every part of her life now required careful planning, right down to the plastic containers in her fridge, labeled and dated for Juno’s sake. Juno was everything. Her curly hair was always a little wild, her questions were endless, her heart so large it filled every inch of their small apartment. She had no idea of the past her mother escaped and Pearl intended to keep it that way. She knew only that her mother worked in a gallery and painted at night when she thought Juno was asleep. But even peace has its cost. Pearl had spent months trying to get Juno into Brookedge Academy, one of the most prestigious private schools in the state. The kind of place where legacy names were whispered in reverence and scholarships were rare miracles. Brookedge required family interviews. Parent evaluations. And worse, it required signatures from both parents. Pearl had forged documents before, but this time, it felt like a dangerous line. If she slipped, she wouldn’t just lose her name. She’d lose Juno. And then there was Gary Manson. The school's president. Older, with the kind of wealth that came from boarding schools and generational land titles. He’d visited the gallery before, admiring pieces with the cool detachment of someone who didn’t need to be impressed. She recognized him but he barely knew her, at least this version of her: Pearl. That day, she had been alone at the gallery, preparing the display tags for an incoming exhibition when he walked in unannounced. “Still pushing for Brookedge, are we?” he asked, fingers tracing along the edge of a minimalist sculpture she hadn’t even placed yet. Pearl stiffened. “I submitted the application. We're waiting for a final review.” Gary looked around the empty gallery, then took a slow step toward her. “There’s one more step we could take. Something... mutually beneficial.” She didn’t like the way his eyes moved. She didn’t like the way his voice softened as he came closer. “You want your daughter in? I can make it happen. Full scholarship. All you have to do is make me feel... invested.” Pearl felt the walls closing in. “I don’t think I understand,” she said flatly. He smirked. “Don’t pretend you’re new to this. You’ve lived among men like me.” That one hit a spot for Pearl even though she knew he didn't know her. “You know exactly how this works. I’m giving you the door, Pearl. You just have to step through it.” She took a small step back. Her fingers clenched the notepad in her hand. And then the bell over the gallery door jingled. She turned sharply. The sound struck her chest before her ears could process it. Just a soft chime. Familiar. But everything inside her stilled. And then her eyes found him. Her breath didn’t return. It was as though the gallery ceiling lowered in an instant. The walls. The lights. The air. Everything crowded in close and heavy and still. Her eyes met a face that drew her mind. His looks dropped through her like a stone into water, sharp and fast and absolute. She didn't move. Couldn’t. Her knees bent slightly, as though her body half-prepared to flee, half-surrendered to collapse. He stood just within the frame of the doorway, framed by soft rainlight and the flicker of traffic outside. For a second, he didn't see her. He was adjusting the weight of something in his arms, a linen-covered frame held close to his chest and then he looked up. And the world ended. Quietly. Without ceremony. Without warning. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn't think. Not properly. He looked like a half-remembered dream brushing up against waking thought. She didn’t recognize him, not really, but something in her stirred. Like he’d been part of her once—in a life she couldn't quite reach, in a version of herself she'd buried. She wasn't sure. He looked like a memory. Handsome, yes. Unreasonably so. But that wasn’t what unstrung her. It was the familiarity threaded through the lines of his face. The sharp jaw. The unreadable eyes. The quiet command. Paint clung to the edge of his wrist, like it had grown there, like he couldn’t quite wash the art off him. It made her chest tighten. She didn’t know him. And yet she felt known. Panic curled beneath her ribs. Did he recognize her from her past? Did he see through the skin, the name, the life she had built brick by careful brick? Did he know? She hoped not. She prayed he didn’t know the version of her that once made reckless decisions and chased strange nights with louder lies. That girl had vanished. No—that girl had been burned down. She was different now. She looked different too. Her hair was longer. Softer. Her frame leaner, stronger. She moved slower, more certain. Her smile didn’t come as easily. Her voice didn’t rise as much. Still, something in her was afraid that he could read through the edits. So she said nothing. Just stood there, fingers curled at her sides, while he looked at her like maybe he wasn’t the one who forgot. And he was staring now. Not at the room. Not at Gary. At her. She knew the moment he saw her. His expression didn’t break, it let the ghost of something rise behind his eyes. Recognition. Confusion. Caution. But she wasn’t ready for any of that. Not here. Not in this body. Not in this life. She tried to speak. Tried to lift her voice to meet the moment, but her throat burned closed. Her mind filled with the static of too many memories clashing for attention. She wanted to know him yet thought that just knowing another man would ruin her life more. Gary was still talking, or maybe just breathing too close behind her. She couldn’t hear him. All her attention was magnetized toward the doorway and the man standing in it. Something inside her snapped—quietly, like thread under too much tension. Her legs moved first, disobeying her entirely. Then her hand, letting go of the notepad like it no longer mattered. She walked to him. Three strides, maybe four. Each one stolen from whatever version of herself she’d been pretending to be since the day she left. And then—without fully knowing why—she slipped her hand through the crook of his arm. The gesture was simple. Soft. But her fingers trembled against the fabric of his coat, and her nails pressed into his sleeve like she needed to feel bone to be sure this wasn’t a dream. “My husband’s here,” she said, voice low and barely steady. A pause.The words tasted foreign as they left her tongue, but the intention landed like stone on wet glass. He looked down at her. Then at Gary. And then back again.