Chapter 2

Elia POV:

I looked at the silk robe, then at the glittering diamonds on the necklace. They were expensive, undoubtedly. But to me, they were just objects, devoid of the power they once held to wound me. I picked up a loupe, my movements precise and practiced.

"The robe is silk, but the stitching is poor. It' s a custom piece, likely a knock-off of a designer. Value, minimal," I said, my voice flat, professional. "The necklace has decent clarity, but the setting is flimsy. I can offer you a fair consignment rate, or a direct purchase at a lower price."

I quoted a number, a figure plucked from years of experience in the vintage couture market. "My prices are competitive. You won't find better anywhere else."

Christian stared at the loupe in my hand, then at the small, worn notebook I held. "You're... you're doing this now?" His voice was thick with unspoken questions. "What happened to your designs? Your art?"

I paused, meeting his gaze. "My time is valuable, Mr. Prince. Do we have a deal, or not? If not, I have other appointments." I wanted them out. Out of my store, out of my life, out of my head. The air felt heavy, tainted by their presence.

He stepped towards me, his hand reaching out, grasping my forearm. "Elia, wait." His touch sent a jolt, not of longing, but of stark revulsion, through me.

His fingers brushed against the slight, almost imperceptible crookedness of my right index finger, then trailed to the faint scar tissue on my knuckles. His eyes widened, a flicker of horror crossing his face.

"Your hand," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "What happened?"

He remembered the endless hours I spent sketching, drafting, sewing. My hands were my life, my future. They were the tools of a prodigious talent, once recognized with accolades and awards, now reduced to the mundane. The injury had shattered that dream, forcing a pivot, a quiet rebuilding.

"It' s nothing," I said, pulling my arm away. The truth was, it was everything. The "accident," Gidget's cruel, calculated act, had shattered more than just bones. It had shattered my career, my identity. And he, Christian, had been there. He had chosen to believe her lies, abandoning me in my most desperate hour, leaving me to face the shattered fragments of my life alone.

"I don't design anymore," I stated, the words clipped. "Multiple surgeries, years of physical therapy. This is the best it'll get. At least I can still use it for basic tasks." My voice was devoid of emotion, a stark contrast to the agony I had endured.

I turned to walk away, to disappear into the back of my store. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I really do have other clients waiting."

But he called my name again, his voice raw. "Elia!"

I stopped, but didn't turn.

Then Gidget's saccharine voice cut through the air. "Elia, wait! Christian, darling, let her go. She's clearly not herself." Her face was a mask of feigned pity, a cruel smile playing on her lips. "Elia, don't be so proud. If you're really struggling, we can help. Christian's company just went public, a small donation from our foundation will keep your little shop afloat for months."

She fluttered her eyelashes at Christian, a performance of pure, unadulterated charity. "It's for a good cause, darling. Supporting women in business, you know."

Christian nodded, his eyes fixed on me, a strange mix of pity and confusion in their depths. "Gidget's right, Elia. We want to help. Let me drive you home; you don't look well."

I finally turned, my gaze sweeping over them. "I don't need your help. Or your pity. And I certainly don't need a ride from a married man."

The words hung in the air, a final, definitive barrier between us. I walked back into the quiet sanctuary of my boutique, leaving them standing in the doorway, their faces a tableau of shock and indignation.

My assistant, Maya, looked up from her phone, her eyes wide. "Oh my god, Elia, was that the Christian Prince? And Gidget Norman? The philanthropist couple?" Her voice was hushed, reverent. "Everyone says they're practically saints, a real-life fairytale. He's so devoted to her, especially after what she went through, you know, with her 'abusive family trauma'." Maya gestured vaguely at her phone. "She just posted about donating a vintage gown for their upcoming charity ball, to raise awareness for victims of domestic violence. They're such a perfect, kind couple."

My laugh was short, sharp, and entirely devoid of humor.