chapter 3

It was Joshua Harvey's assistant, Finlay Reeves. He looked older than I remembered — more worn, as if the past two years had been carved into the lines of his face. When our eyes met, his expression was filled with a quiet storm of hesitation, guilt, and something close to pity. "Miss Bennett," he greeted softly.

I was glazing a new vase, the pale ceramic turning slowly on the wheel. I didn't bother to look up. "What is it, Finlay?"

"Mr. Harvey… he wants to see you."

My hands stilled for the briefest moment, but I didn't lift my head. I brushed another line of glaze across the curve of the vase, pretending the words had slipped past me. "There's nothing left for us to talk about."

"Miss Bennett," Finlay said again, his voice low but trembling with sincerity. "Mr. Harvey's had a rough time these past two years." He hesitated, searching for the right words. "Ever since you left, he hasn't been himself. He works like a machine, doesn't sleep, doesn't eat properly. Carley Walsh… she's gone. He dismissed her from the studio, and I heard things didn't end well for her."

"That's their business," I said coolly, still focused on my work. "None of it has anything to do with me."

Carley started the fire, but Joshua handed her the match. I would never forget that night — the suffocating heat, the shattering glass, his arms around her while I lay bleeding on the floor. Some wounds never close. They don't fade; they harden.

"Miss Bennett," Finlay tried again, his voice breaking slightly. "Please. Just see him once. He was in the hospital last month — bleeding ulcer. The nurses said he kept calling your name. He knows he was wrong. He just wants to apologize."

I finally lifted my gaze, meeting Finlay's weary eyes. "Go back and tell him to forget the apology," I said, my voice quiet but sharp enough to cut through the still air. "I told him before — we're even. Tell him not to bother me again."

He looked as though he wanted to argue, but I raised a hand to stop him. "I'm busy, Finlay. You can go."

The words hit him like a door closing. He nodded, shoulders slumping as he turned and left. The moment the studio door clicked shut behind him, silence filled the space — the hum of the kiln, the faint scent of wet clay, and my heartbeat thudding softly against the stillness.

I stared at the half-finished vase before me, the glaze beginning to dry unevenly. My hands trembled slightly, and I set the brush down. I had told myself I'd moved on — that the past no longer had the power to shake me. But just hearing Joshua's name had stirred something deep, something I thought I'd buried beneath layers of clay and time.

Frustrated, I tore off my apron, grabbed my car keys, and drove to the coast. The ocean wind hit my face with a biting chill, salty and wild, scattering the loose strands of my hair. I stood on the empty beach for a long while, the horizon endless and cold, the waves breaking against the shore with rhythmic violence. The sea had a way of making pain feel small, and for a moment, I almost believed I could leave it all behind.

I thought that was the end of it.

But I was wrong.

The next morning, Joshua stood outside the gate of Remoria Studio.

He looked nothing like the man I had once planned to marry. The sharp lines of his face were harsher now, his body lean to the point of frailty. His hair was unkempt, his eyes shadowed, his entire presence stripped of the arrogance that used to follow him everywhere. He stood behind the wooden fence, motionless, his gaze fixed on me — a gaze full of emotions I couldn't untangle: regret, sadness, and something that looked painfully close to pleading.

I shut off the kiln, wiped my hands clean, and walked over. "How did you even find this place?" I asked, my tone flat, emotionless — as if I were speaking to a stranger.

"If I want to find you," he rasped, "I'll find a way." His voice was rough, hoarse, worn thin by nights without sleep.

"Why are you here?" I asked, arching a brow, "To see if I'm still alive?"

Color drained from his face. His lips parted, but it took him a moment to find the words. "Natasha," he whispered, "I'm sorry."

The sound that left me was almost a laugh — sharp, disbelieving. "Sorry?" I repeated. "Joshua, do you really think a single word can erase what you did?"

I rolled up my right sleeve and held out my arm. The scar, pale and jagged, twisted across my skin like a cruel reminder that some burns never fade. "Look at this," I said quietly. "Every day, it reminds me how blind I was — loving you for ten whole years."

The scar wound across my pale arm like a centipede, ugly and unhealed, and Joshua's eyes flinched as if it had burned him too. He reached out instinctively, stopping just short of touching me. His hand trembled in the air before falling uselessly to his side.

"Natasha," he said, his voice cracking, "I know I was wrong. Please… just give me one more chance."

"Chance?" I echoed, a bitter smile curling my lips. "I gave you countless chances. And every single time, you chose her. Every time you defended Carley, you gave me another chance — to see you clearly, and to finally leave you."