Chapter 4

Five years.

Five years can feel like a lifetime, or the blink of an eye. For me, it was both. The girl who had fled Veridia in a haze of heartbreak was a ghost, a black-and-white photograph from a forgotten album. The woman I was now lived in full, vibrant color.

Paris had remade me. The city hadn't just been a place to study; it had been a crucible. The initial months were a blur of loneliness and fierce determination. I poured every ounce of my pain and anger into my work. My designs, once soft and romantic, became bold, architectural, and unapologetic. I learned to speak French, to navigate the metro, to drink red wine at lunch, and most importantly, to rely on no one but myself.

After graduating at the top of my class, I was headhunted by a boutique design house. My work gained recognition. I wasn't just Clara anymore; I was Clara Dubois, a name whispered with respect in the competitive world of high-end textile design. I had my own small, sun-drenched apartment in Le Marais, a close circle of friends, and a life that was beautifully, wonderfully mine.

Sophie had joined me in Paris a year after I arrived, and our friendship was the one constant thread connecting my past and present. She was my anchor, my cheerleader, and the only person who knew the full story of that night.

The memory of Mark had faded, the sharp edges of the wound softened by time and distance. He had tried to contact me in the beginning-emails, calls to Sophie, even a letter sent to his parents' old address. I never responded. The cliffhanger of that night, his hand on my wrist, his phone ringing with his fiancée's picture, was where his story ended for me. I never knew what choice he made in that moment, and I had built a life on the foundation of not caring.

As for Julian Thorne, the stranger who had wrapped me in his coat and his kindness, his memory was different. It was a strange, fleeting warmth. A question mark. In the lonely early days in Paris, I had sometimes found myself wondering about the man with storm-grey eyes. But he was a phantom, a brief character in the final, dramatic scene of my old life.

The summons back to Veridia came in the form of an email with a subject line that made my heart stop: "An Unprecedented Opportunity: The Thorne Tower Project."

Thorne Industries, the monolithic corporation run by the enigmatic and wildly successful Julian Thorne, was building a new global headquarters in the heart of Veridia. Thorne Tower was set to be an architectural marvel, a symbol of the city's future. And they wanted me-or rather, the Parisian firm I worked for-to bid on designing the bespoke textiles and interior fabrics for the entire building. It was the kind of career-defining project designers dreamed of.

My boss, a chic Parisian woman named Helene, had called me into her office. The room smelled of strong coffee and expensive perfume.

"Clara," she'd said, her sharp eyes missing nothing. "You are from Veridia, non? You are our best. Our only choice to lead this pitch. You must go back."

My first instinct was a visceral, full-body *no*. Veridia was a graveyard of memories I had no desire to visit. The thought of walking those streets, of breathing that air, felt like a betrayal of the woman I had become.

*But this project...* my ambition whispered. *This is everything you've worked for.*

Sophie, over a bottle of wine that evening, was more direct. "You have to go," she insisted, her eyes sparkling with excitement for me. She pushed a piece of cheese towards me on a knife. "Clara, this isn't you running back to the past. This is you marching back in, a conquering hero, to put your name on the biggest building in the city. It's poetic justice!"

She was right. Fear was a luxury I could no longer afford.

And so, I found myself on a plane, watching the familiar coastline of my home country appear through the clouds. The landing at Veridia International Airport was a surreal experience. The air, thick with a humidity I'd forgotten, tasted of home and heartache.

I checked into a sleek, modern hotel downtown, a universe away from the small, subsidized apartment I'd once lived in. My room overlooked the city, and there, dominating the skyline, was the skeletal framework of my future: Thorne Tower, a web of steel and glass climbing towards the sky.

The next morning, I dressed for war. I chose a sharply tailored crimson pantsuit, a color I never would have dared to wear five years ago. My hair was cut in a chic, no-nonsense bob. My heels clicked with authority on the marble floor of the Thorne Industries temporary headquarters.

The building was a hive of quiet, focused energy. The air smelled of new carpets, fresh paint, and ambition. People in expensive suits moved with purpose, their faces set with determination. It was intimidating, but I met their gazes head-on. I was no longer the girl who shrank from view.

A polished receptionist with a nameplate that read 'Sarah' directed me to the 40th-floor conference room. "Mr. Thorne's executive team is waiting for you, Ms. Dubois."

My heart hammered against my ribs, a nervous, frantic bird. *It's just a meeting. He probably won't even be there. He's the CEO. He has people for this.*

I pushed open the heavy glass door. The conference room was vast, with another stunning view of the city. A long, polished mahogany table was surrounded by a dozen people-the executive team. Architects, project managers, financial officers. They all looked up as I entered.

And at the head of the table, he sat.

Julian Thorne.

He was older, but the five years had only sharpened his features, adding a new layer of authority and intensity. His dark hair had a few distinguished threads of silver at the temples. He wore a dark grey suit that fit him like a second skin, but he'd forgone a tie, the top button of his crisp white shirt undone. He exuded an aura of absolute power and control.

He looked up, and his eyes-those same stormy, blue-grey eyes-met mine across the length of the room.

And I saw it. A flicker of recognition. A brief, almost imperceptible widening of his eyes before his professional mask slammed back into place.

He remembered me.

My carefully constructed composure threatened to crack. The memory of that night rushed back with stunning clarity: the cold rain, the warmth of his jacket, the concern in his voice. He wasn't a phantom anymore. He was the man who held my entire professional future in his hands.

He stood up, his movements commanding the attention of the entire room.

"Ms. Dubois," he said, his voice the same deep baritone I remembered, but now it was clipped, professional, and held a dangerous edge. "Welcome back to Veridia. We've been looking forward to your presentation."

His gaze was intense, analytical, giving nothing away. But I knew. In that single, fleeting moment of recognition, the past and the present had collided with the force of a thunderclap. And my carefully ordered world was once again thrown into chaos.

---