Chapter 1

The noise of the alumni film festival was a dull hum in my ears, a backdrop to the too-bright stage lights. I was Ethan Miller, back at my old California film school, a place I swore I'd never see again. Years had passed, I'd built a career in Europe, found a life.

Then the Q&A started after my indie film screening. A hand shot up in the audience, a familiar, theatrical wave.

Isabella Hayes. My Isabella. No, not mine, not for a long, long time.

"Ethan, darling," her voice cut through the polite applause, "it's been too long."

She stood, a spotlight catching her, just like she always loved.

"I was thinking," she continued, her voice smooth, "about us. About 'Desert Bloom'."

'Desert Bloom'. The name hit me, a cold fist to the gut. My thesis script, the one they said I stole. The one she helped them say I stole.

My mind flashed back, a raw, ugly memory. Isabella, standing beside Julian Vance, her new man, his arm around her. Her father's studio, which had loved my script, suddenly pulled back. Then Isabella, on a stage much like this one, at a student showcase, her voice clear and sharp, calling me a plagiarist. Julian, son of a rival studio head, looking like the injured party.

"A collaboration, perhaps?" Isabella was saying now, a charming smile on her face, "To finally bring it to life, the way we always imagined?"

The crowd murmured, intrigued. They didn't know. Or maybe some remembered the old scandal, the promising student filmmaker who vanished.

I felt a cold calm settle over me. This was her game, always.

"Isabella," I said, my voice even, "it's certainly been a while."

I saw her mistake my composure for something else, maybe a flicker of the old flame. She was wrong.

That flame was ash, and the ashes were scattered years ago, across an ocean.

The moderator, sensing drama, tried to move on, but Isabella wasn't done.

"It was such a passionate project for us, Ethan. Our story."

Our story? It was my story, my pain, my exile. She had stood by Julian, watched him tear me down.

The memory was vivid: Julian, smooth and persuasive, whispering to her, her father nodding in agreement. Julian, who wanted me gone, out of his way with Bella, out of the running for any early career breaks.

And Bella, my Bella, had chosen. She chose him. She chose to believe him, or pretend to.

The accusation itself, that 'Desert Bloom' was Julian's idea, that I had stolen it from him and Bella, was a lie so blatant it had stunned me into silence back then.

Now, I just felt a deep weariness. Some ghosts, it seemed, didn't stay buried.