It took two full days of cash payments and long-distance buses to escape New York's suffocating grip. I randomly picked a spot on the map: a small West Coast town called "Seabreeze." I needed the ocean—its vast blueness to wash away my inner filth, its endless tides to drown out his voice in my head.

Using Blackwood's money—that tainted sum stained with my shame—I rented a small house at the edge of town. Faded white paint, a small yard carrying the salt tang of the sea, even a wooden swing draped with withered roses. Each time I handled those crisp bills, my fingertips burned as if touching betrayal itself. But this money was now the only lifeline for me and the child growing inside me.


I created a new identity: Ella Martin, young widow, husband lost to a car accident, seeking coastal healing. The story was simple, effective—designed to earn sympathy while discouraging questions. I burned everything connecting me to Isabella Rossi, cut my hair short, and adopted plain cotton dresses and canvas shoes. The artistic dreamer—that stubborn, naive girl—remained buried in New York with her brushes and paints.

Now, I was just a woman who needed to survive.

To blend into town life and preserve my savings, I took a waitressing job at the "Seagull Restaurant" downtown. The owner, Martha—plump, loud-voiced but kind-hearted—read my fabricated tragic backstory and patted my shoulder with her rough, warm hand.


"Poor child," she said, accepting my lie without question. "Don't worry, nobody will bother you here. Just work hard."

My life shrank to basic survival. Each morning, I woke to seagull cries, donned my cooking-oil-scented uniform, and tied my hair into a neat ponytail. The work was mind-numbing—carrying plates, wiping tables, serving tourists and locals alike. Bacon grease, coffee aroma, customer laughter, and clinking silverware became my entire world.


At first, this life of simple human warmth brought an odd peace. My fear-strained nerves found respite in physical labor. The locals were kind, offering smiles to the "poor widow" and sometimes pressing fresh-baked pies into my hands after shifts. I made myself invisible—speaking softly, keeping my head down, avoiding eye contact, becoming forgettable.

But nights alone in my empty room brought crushing loneliness. I couldn't paint—each time I touched a brush, Damian's cold eyes and that night's details flashed before me. Art, once my salvation, had become a monument to my shame.

My only comfort came from an encrypted email account.

About two weeks after leaving New York, I received my first email. The sender's name stopped my heart—Alistair Finch.

With trembling hands, I opened it to find his familiar, scholarly prose.

"Bella, I don't know if you'll receive this; it's the only contact I could find. When you left, I saw despair in your eyes—not the look of someone facing a mere 'family emergency.' I know you're in trouble, though you wouldn't accept my help. I respect that, but I cannot bear to see your talent wasted."

Tears instantly welled up, splashing onto my screen and blurring his words.

"My heart breaks for you, Bella. Your paintings possess a rare light—a sensitivity that pierces darkness and captures the soul. I can't imagine what hardship drove you to abandon such a gift. If you're willing to talk—even just about Caravaggio's shadows or Vermeer's tranquility—I'm here. Art shouldn't be abandoned. Neither should you."

His email unlocked something deep within me—a chamber I'd forcibly sealed. I read it repeatedly, devouring each word like a dying desert traveler finding water. That night, I finally found courage to reply.

I said nothing of my situation, nothing of that man, certainly nothing of my pregnancy. I simply discussed art as we had in school—Titian's colors, Rembrandt's brushstrokes, classicism's rigor and romanticism's passion. His replies were erudite, gentle, insightful. He seemed to see through my anxiety, soothing me with the language of art.

Our exchanges grew more frequent, expanding beyond pure art. He shared exhibitions from the Guggenheim, grumbling about pretentious modern pieces with charming old-school stubbornness. I described Seabreeze's twilights—the sea surface painted golden-purple, white waves crashing against rocks.

Gradually, his salutations changed from "Bella" to "My dear Bella."

"My dear Bella," one letter began, "Your color descriptions recall Monet's 'Water Lilies.' You have a master's eye, extracting poetry from ordinary scenes. When you describe the sea, I can almost smell the salt and feel its peace. I wonder what life you lead with such vision. I envy that sea, Bella, for having the privilege of your presence."

Reading this, my heart raced uncontrollably. His words carried heat beyond teacher and student—a mature man's restrained yet unmistakable interest. It unsettled me, yet I couldn't resist its pull. In my isolation, Professor Finch was a distant lighthouse illuminating my darkness, my only spiritual anchor. Each morning I rushed to check my inbox, clutching at this lifeline in my drowning existence.

He was my sole connection to my abandoned world and an echo of the artist still buried within me. I fantasized about confessing everything to him someday. Perhaps only he, who truly valued my soul, could understand my actions and forgive my sins.

Meanwhile, three thousand miles away in New York, another silent war intensified.

In Damian Blackwood's penthouse office, tension froze the air. Beyond the massive windows, Manhattan glittered like a galaxy, yet no light penetrated the darkness in his eyes.

Between his fingers, he held a photograph—an accidental capture from a charity gala. The main subject was elsewhere; Isabella Rossi appeared only in the corner, a blurry silhouette. Head slightly tilted, listening to someone nearby. Dim light outlined her neck's graceful curve and the tension in her jaw. Eyes downcast, lashes shadowing her expression, revealing both defiance and fragility.

This blurry image had become Damian's only lead for nearly a month—and the fuel for his growing obsession.

"Sir," his assistant—a man who functioned like a precision instrument—stood before him, even his breathing carefully controlled.

"Speak." Damian didn't look up, his gaze fixed on the photo as if he could extract her soul from the blurred image.

"We've deployed all resources, searching New York and surrounding states for any woman matching 'Isabella Rossi' in the target age range. We've cross-referenced population records, social media, financial data, consumer patterns... Nothing matches. Her art school provided minimal information—only that she was an orphan surviving on scholarships and part-time work." The assistant's voice remained professional despite his failure. "We've also checked all clinics. No woman matching her description has undergone... the relevant procedure in the past month."

The office fell into deathly silence.

Damian slowly raised his head, a storm brewing in his obsidian eyes. Not anger, but something colder—violated authority. He ruled a financial empire, accustomed to everything following his calculations. He bought what he wanted, manipulated as he pleased. Yet now, a disposable girl had dared challenge his absolute power.

She hadn't taken the money and run, nor terminated the pregnancy. Instead, she'd vanished in a way he couldn't fathom.

This awakened the predator in him. No longer a transaction's aftermath—now a hunt.

"Expand the scope," Damian's voice was low and dangerous—a predator's growl before the chase.

The assistant hesitated. "Sir, what do you mean?"

"Nationwide." Damian rose, his tall figure casting an oppressive shadow across the office. He snatched the useless report from his assistant's hands, tossed it onto the desk, then slapped the blurry photo on top.

"Send this face to every informant and information source we have nationwide. Data companies, private investigators, even our less legitimate channels."

"Sir, this... this will cause waves, and the cost will be astronomical. For a..." The assistant nearly said "for an insignificant woman," but meeting Damian's icy stare, he wisely swallowed his words.

Damian's lips curled into a cold smile. He tapped the assistant's cheek with the photo's edge—a gesture both dismissive and commanding. "Do I look like I care about the cost?"

His voice was soft but carried absolute authority. "I pay you for results, not excuses. I want her found."

He withdrew his hand, picked up the photo again, and traced the blurred outline of her cheek, his gaze dark and predatory.

"Find her," he murmured, speaking more to himself than his assistant—a declaration of war against the elusive shadow. "Bring her to me."