Chapter 1

The day my parents told me I was transferring schools, my world ended for the first time.

"It's for your own good, Chloe," my mother said, her voice tight, her lips a thin, unforgiving line.

She stood in the doorway of my room, my father a silent shadow behind her.

"Leo is a bad influence. A musician with no future, and he's too old for you."

I stared at the poster of Leo's band on my wall, his defiant smirk a world away from the suffocating quiet of my house. He was my secret, my escape from their rigid rules and Sunday sermons. Now they had found him out, and they were ripping him away.

"You're ruining my life," I whispered.

"No," my mother corrected, her voice cold as steel. "We are saving it."

Two weeks later, I was walking the sterile halls of Northgate Prep. It was a world of crisp uniforms and polished shoes, a far cry from the creative chaos of my old public school. I felt like a ghost, drifting through crowds of strangers, my art portfolio heavy in my hand.

That' s when I saw him.

He was sitting alone on a bench in the courtyard, a sketchbook open on his lap, his head bent in concentration. He had warm, kind eyes and a smile that seemed to light up the gray afternoon.

He looked up as I passed, and his eyes met mine.

"You're new," he said. It wasn't a question.

I nodded, unable to speak.

"I'm Ethan. Ethan Hayes."

"Chloe Davis."

He patted the bench beside him. "Tough first day?"

"Something like that."

We talked for an hour. He was a musician, too, a pianist. He loved all the same composers I did. He understood the ache to create something beautiful, something that would last. For the first time in weeks, I felt a flicker of something other than loss. I felt a little bit of hope.

Ethan became my anchor at Northgate. We spent lunches in the music room, his fingers flying across the piano keys while I sketched his profile. We talked about our dreams, big and bright and centered on New York City.

"The Ashton Conservatory," he said one afternoon, his voice filled with a reverence that matched my own. "It's the only place to be."

I looked at him, my heart swelling. "That's my dream, too."

He smiled, that easy, charming smile that always made my stomach flip. "Then it's a pact. You and me. We get in, we go together. We take New York by storm."

"A pact," I agreed, my voice thick with emotion.

He sealed it by taking my hand, his fingers lacing through mine. In that moment, I believed it. I believed in him. I believed our future was a masterpiece we would create together. Leo Maxwell and the life I'd lost became a distant, faded photograph. Ethan was my future.

The night before our conservatory auditions was electric with tension and excitement. We were both staying in the city, in separate hotel rooms paid for by our parents. We met for dinner to calm our nerves.

"To us," Ethan said, raising his glass of water. "To tomorrow."

I clinked my glass against his, my hand trembling slightly. "I'm so nervous I could throw up."

He reached across the table and squeezed my hand. "You'll be amazing, Chloe. They'll be lucky to have you." He gave me a small, reassuring smile. "I brought you something. To help you relax. Just a herbal supplement."

He handed me a small bottle of pills. I trusted him completely. I took two with my water, not even thinking twice.

The world started to tilt a few minutes later. The restaurant lights blurred, the sounds around me melting into a dull roar.

"Ethan," I mumbled, my head feeling heavy. "I don't feel good."

"It's okay," he said, his voice sounding far away. "I've got you."

He helped me up, his arm around my waist. I leaned on him, my legs like jelly. I remember the cold night air, the smell of garbage and rain. I remember him leading me down a dark, narrow alley. The brick walls were slick with grime.

"Ethan, where are we going?"

He didn't answer. He gently pushed me down until I was sitting against the cold, wet wall. My vision swam. He knelt in front of me, his face a blurry shape in the darkness.

"I'm sorry, Chloe," he whispered.

Then he stood up and walked away, leaving me alone in the shadows. I was disoriented, vulnerable, and completely helpless. I tried to call his name, but my tongue was thick and useless. The darkness closed in.

I woke up the next morning on the floor of my hotel room, my head pounding. I had no idea how I got there. My dress was torn and filthy. I missed my audition. I missed everything.

I was lying on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, when my phone started buzzing nonstop. It was a video. A video of me.

In the alley. Disoriented, mumbling, my clothes in disarray. It looked horrible. It looked like the worst possible version of the truth. It had gone viral.

My mother saw it. She didn't call. She showed up at my door, her face a mask of fury and disgust.

"I have no daughter," she said, her voice shaking with rage. "You have shamed this family. You have shamed God. Do not call me. Do not come to my house. You are dead to me."

She turned and left, slamming the door behind her. The sound echoed the shattering of my heart.

My father, my quiet, gentle father, just sat in his chair, his face buried in his hands. He didn't say a word. A few minutes later, his phone chimed with a text. He read it, and all the color drained from his face. He held the phone out to me with a trembling hand.

The message read: "How does it feel to see your daughter's future ruined?"

I looked at the number. My blood ran cold.

It was Ethan's.

He was gone. His phone was disconnected. His family moved away overnight. He vanished from the face of the earth, leaving behind the wreckage of my life.

Five years passed. They were a gray, formless blur of therapists and medication. I was diagnosed with severe anxiety, depression, and PTSD. The bright, artistic girl who dreamed of New York was gone, replaced by a frightened woman who was scared of her own shadow. I lived in a small, cheap apartment, the blinds always drawn. The world was too loud, too bright, too full of judging eyes.

One day, there was a knock on my door. I ignored it, like I always did. But the knocking was persistent. Finally, a key turned in the lock. My landlord. But it wasn't my landlord who stepped inside.

It was Ethan.

He looked older, more mature, but it was him. The same kind eyes, the same handsome face. He looked at me, at the squalor of my apartment, at the tremor in my hands, and his expression was one of profound sadness.

"Chloe," he said, his voice soft and full of pain. "I finally found you. I've been looking for you for years."

He took me in. He moved me into a beautiful, sunlit house. He hired nurses and doctors. He cared for me with a tenderness and devotion that slowly, painstakingly, began to soothe the raw edges of my soul. He told me he had been forced to leave, that his family had a crisis, that he had been sick himself. He said losing me was the great regret of his life.

In my medicated haze, I believed him. I needed to believe him. His care was the only light in my darkness.