Chapter 8 - Shadows of the Past
Despite the success of my new life, healing wasn't always a straight line. There were days when the simple sound of rushing water—like the fountain in the venue courtyard or even the kitchen sink running too loudly—would cause a momentary spike of adrenaline in my chest, a phantom echo of the cold shock that had swallowed me on my wedding day.
One Saturday afternoon in late November, while walking through the park near my new apartment, I accidentally crossed paths with someone I had hoped never to see again.
Mason was sitting on a wooden bench near the duck pond, looking thin, unkempt, and significantly less arrogant than he had appeared in the VIP suite on my wedding night. His designer suit was replaced by a faded gray hoodie, and he was staring blankly at the ground between his boots.
He looked up just as I passed by. Our eyes locked.
For a second, I saw panic flicker across his face—the same instinctual fear I had seen in Ethan the night the server rooms were raided. He started to stand up, as if to say something, but stopped himself, his shoulders slumping under the weight of his own disgrace.
I didn't stop walking. I didn't glare, and I didn't gloat. I simply looked at him with absolute, profound indifference—the ultimate opposite of anger, because indifference meant he no longer mattered enough to occupy space in my mind.
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As I continued down the path, the autumn breeze carried the sound of children laughing near the playground. The sun broke through the gray clouds, warming my shoulders through my jacket. I pulled out my phone, checked a notification regarding a new partnership proposal for Veritas Media Group, and smiled to myself.
The princess narrative was dead. The author had taken over.
