chapter 5

Half a month later, Remoria Studio received a massive anonymous order — the largest I'd ever seen. It was from my old home, and they wanted an entire custom set of my Starry Night collection. The quantity was staggering, and the price offered was beyond generous — so absurd that I knew, without even needing to ask, who had placed it.

I told my assistant to reject the order immediately. But the next morning, when I checked my account, the deposit had already been transferred. A sum so large it nearly made me dizzy.

I tried tracing the sender, but there was no information. The account had been wiped clean, no name, no history, nothing. I told my assistant to return the money, but when she tried, the system only flashed one message: Account deleted.

Anger surged up my throat like smoke from that long-ago fire. I hurled my phone across the room, and it shattered against the floor, scattering the pieces like broken glass from my past.

When Patrick arrived a few minutes later, the room was a mess — papers, clay dust, shards of ceramic everywhere. He didn't ask a single question. He just knelt quietly, helped me pick everything up, then handed me a glass of water. "He still won't let go, huh?" he said softly.

I nodded, my frustration spilling out in a rush. "Does he really think he can buy his way out of guilt? That throwing money at me will fix everything? What does he even take me for?"

Patrick leaned against the table, his expression calm but steady. "Natasha, don't get worked up," he said gently. "If you don't want to take the order, then don't. I'll handle the refund — whatever it takes. Don't let him get to you."

The warmth in his tone, so patient and solid, cut through my anger like sunlight through smoke. I exhaled slowly, meeting his gaze, "Thank you, Patrick."

He smiled faintly, that quiet, self-effacing smile I'd grown used to. "There you go again," he said, "You don't need to thank me. We're friends, aren't we?"

Friends. The word hung between us, soft but uncertain.

Yeah, we were just friends. But when I was with him, the world stopped spinning quite so fast. The air felt lighter. For the first time in years, I felt safe.

That night, I dreamed of the fire again.

Flames clawed at the walls, devouring everything in sight. The smoke was thick, choking. I could feel the heat blistering my skin. I screamed for help, but Joshua just grabbed Carley and ran, never once looking back. Just as the smoke closed in, just as I was about to give up, someone lifted me — strong arms wrapping around me, shielding me from the flames. I never saw their face, but their touch was warm, protective. He carried me, step by step, through the burning wreckage until the heat faded to darkness.

When I woke up, my cheeks were wet with tears.

I didn't understand why that dream came now, after so long. Maybe it was Joshua's endless attempts to reach me, dragging the ghosts back into the light. Maybe my heart was just reminding me that not all rescues come from love — some come from survival.

Either way, I decided something had to change. I was done letting the past chase me.

Using that unwanted deposit, I made a choice — I rented a small storefront in downtown Havenreach, a lively stretch of shops and cafés. For the first time, Remoria Studio would have a home of its own, open to the public.

It wasn't about the money. It was about proof. Proof that I didn't just survive him — I thrived.

The opening day was bright and buzzing. A crisp banner fluttered above the door: Remoria Studio — Grand Opening. Patrick arrived early, carrying a towering flower basket with a card that read, "Congratulations, Natasha. Wishing you endless creation and success." He'd even called in half the art scene of Havenreach — gallery owners, collectors, critics. The place was overflowing, laughter and music spilling into the street.

I barely had time to breathe. Patrick stayed by my side all day, introducing guests, arranging displays, pouring wine. He was steady, composed, smiling in that quiet way that made everything feel under control.

When we finally closed up that night, I dropped into a chair, exhausted but happy. "I couldn't have done this without you," I said sincerely, watching him gather empty glasses.

"Don't be so formal," he said, handing me a bottle of water before sitting beside me. "Seeing you succeed… honestly, I don't think I've ever been happier for someone."

I smiled, feeling something inside me soften — something small but alive.

Then my phone rang.

An unfamiliar number flashed across the screen — a number from Novara. I hesitated before answering. "Hello?"

There was a pause, then a voice I hadn't heard in years. Soft. Uneasy. Haunting.

"Natasha," the woman said quietly. "It's… it's Carley."