Chapter 4 04

The media began to stir.

"Reclusive heiress vanishes before wedding."

"Elara Wynthorpe spotted at abandoned estate-runaway bride?"

Aurelian's PR team scrambled. Margaux made a show of fainting on camera. Sympathy poured in.

Elara watched it all unfold with a cup of tea and a faint smile.

Adrian Knox, a long-time acquaintance from art school, reached out.

"I saw your piece in the gallery downtown," he said over the phone. "Bold. Unapologetic."

"Sounds like me lately," she said.

"Let me represent you."

Elara hesitated, then nodded. "Alright."

That night, she sketched until dawn.

A woman standing in flames-her silhouette made of ash, her spine iron.

She titled it: The Rewrite of Me.

Margaux's condition deteriorated. Aurelian returned, this time with desperation in his voice.

"Elara, it's a matter of hours. She needs a transfusion. Please."

She met his eyes. Calm. Cold. Unforgiving.

"Let her bleed."

He looked as if she'd slapped him.

"I gave everything," she said. "And you all took it without guilt. Now, I choose me."

Aurelian left empty-handed.

Later that night, she received a single text:

She survived. Don't bother coming back.

Elara smiled.

She didn't intend to.

Instead, she walked into the gallery for her first solo show.

Her painting stood at the center.

The Rewrite of Me.

The crowd lingered in awe. Critics whispered. Collectors called.

Elara stood in the back, watching it all unfold-not as a girl forgotten by her family or a pawn in a marriage-but as an artist.

As a woman reborn.

And she whispered to no one in particular:

"This is mine now."

-End of Part I-