Chapter 9 Coming in terms

Evelyn:

I couldn't stand being with the man I was suppose to call fiancé,

Let alone husband in the nearest future.

I needed some fresh air, air that wasn't feeling like Julian's presence.

I needed to head back home.

"I need to head back home Julian, it is getting quite late and mother might be bothered"

" I will live before you. See you later."

Those where my last words to him before I made my way out of the boutique

This time, I wasn't going to turn back for any forgotten question like before.

I didn't look back as I walked out of the boutique.

Didn't pause.

Didn't hesitate.

The city air hit me like a slap-cold, sharp, real. My heels clicked against the pavement, each step louder than Julian's lies. One foot. Then the other. Just keep moving.

But then his voice cut through the noise:

"Evelyn."

I froze. Not because I wanted to.

Because my body still remembered how to obey him.

I turned slowly.

He stood framed in the boutique's glass door, sunlight catching the arrogance in his smile. Like he'd already won.

"You're not taking the surgery, are you?" he asked. Not "Are you okay?" Not "What's wrong?"

"Again."

That word. Again.

My blood turned to ice.

How did he know it was suppose to happen today?

Did Serena tell him? Did I?.

Now he stood there, calm as stone, fishing for confirmation that I was still the broken girl who needed fixing.

Still the girl who'd erase herself for love.

I met his eyes.

"No," I said. Just one word. Flat. Final.

"I'm not taking the surgery."

His smile didn't waver-but something shifted behind it. A flicker of confusion. Of threat. Like a chess player realizing the pawn just moved on its own.

"You sure?" he pressed, stepping closer. Too close. His cologne-expensive, familiar-wrapped around me like a noose. "You worked so hard to get into Parsons. Don't you want to... fit in?"

Translation: Don't you want to be pretty enough for me?

I didn't flinch.

Didn't blink.

Just stared at the man who'd once made me feel like a charity case in my own skin.

"I fit," I said. "Just not the way you want."

He laughed-a soft, patronizing sound. "You always were stubborn." Then, like flipping a switch, his voice turned syrup-sweet: "Call me later, okay? I'll worry if I don't hear from you."

"Worry."

That's what he called it.

Checking my location.

Demanding updates.

Punishing silence with cold shoulders or fake emergencies.

"I was worried sick," he'd say when I dared breathe without him.

Now he stood there, hand already in his pocket-waiting for me to promise obedience.

Waiting for the old Evelyn to scramble: "Yes, Julian. I'll call. I'm sorry. I love you."

But I just... looked at him.

At the way his thumb tapped his phone case.

At the fake concern in his eyes.

At the man who'd never loved me-he'd loved the idea of owning me.

"I have to go," I said.

No explanation.

No apology.

No "I'll call you."

I turned my back.

Walked away.

He didn't call after me.

Didn't chase.

Just let me leave-a loose thread he assumed he could always pull back.

Let him think that.

The city swallowed me whole. Traffic roared. A bus hissed. A stranger bumped my shoulder and muttered "sorry." I kept walking. Faster now. Toward home. Toward my sketchbooks. Toward me.

And with every step, the truth settled deeper:

I wasn't skipping surgery to spite him.

I was skipping it to save myself.

Ten years ago, I'd handed my face to a surgeon like it was a gift for Julian.

"This is for us," I'd whispered as the anesthesia took me under.

Now?

Now I held my face like a promise:

This is mine. And it's enough.

My phone buzzed in my bag.

I didn't check it.

Didn't need to.

I knew what it was.

Another "just checking in" text.

Another trap disguised as care.

But I kept walking.

Past the café where Serena would later cry about being "pregnant with Julian's baby."

Past the park where he'd propose under fake stars.

Past every ghost of the life I'd almost lived.

And as I turned onto my street-the one where Mom still lived, where the quilt she made for me still covered my bed-I finally breathed.

He asked if I was taking the surgery again.

As if I'd ever stop trying to please him.

As if I'd ever forget how to disappear.

But I remembered.

I remembered everything.

And this time?

I wouldn't fix myself to be loved.

I'd love myself enough to walk away.

The front door clicked open.

Sunlight spilled across the hallway.

I stepped inside.

Closed the door.

And for the first time in hours , I felt the freshness of the air.

Air that was free from drama and pretence.