Chapter 3
The silence inside the BMW was absolute. Outside, the sounds of Veridia City—the distant sirens, the hum of traffic—were completely muted by the thick, soundproof glass. Inside, the only sound was Katherine's own ragged, ugly sobs.
She cried until her throat was raw and her head throbbed. The perfect, controlled mask she wore every single day had shattered, and she didn't know how to put it back together. The tears weren't just for the humiliation at the reunion; they were for the ten years she had wasted, for the life she hadn't lived. She had been so focused on the finish line that she hadn't realized the race was pointless.
Finally, the tears slowed to a trickle. She was left feeling hollowed out, exhausted down to her bones. She stared at her reflection in the dark rearview mirror. The woman looking back was a mess. Mascara ran in black streaks down her cheeks. Her eyes were red and puffy. The powerful, put-together woman who had left her apartment hours ago was gone.
She started the car and drove home on autopilot, navigating the familiar streets without really seeing them. The glittering skyscrapers that usually made her feel a sense of pride now just looked like tall, empty buildings.
Back in her apartment, the silence was even louder. The place was immaculate, everything in its perfect, minimalist spot. It looked more like a showroom than a home. There were no photos on the walls, no stacks of books on the coffee table, no personal clutter. It was the home of someone who didn't really live there.
Katherine walked into her bathroom and stared at her reflection under the bright, unforgiving lights. She looked pathetic. The expensive dress was just a dress. The makeup was just a mask. She reached behind her back, unzipped the Tom Ford armor, and let it pool at her feet on the cold marble floor. She turned on the water and scrubbed her face with a vengeance, washing away the makeup, the party, and the night until her skin was raw and clean.
She couldn't sleep. She paced the length of her living room, the city lights below doing nothing to comfort her. She felt a desperate, clawing need for… something. Something real.
She picked up her phone, her fingers scrolling through her contacts. It was a short, pathetic list: 'Mr. Veyron', 'Veyron Office', 'Building Super', 'Dry Cleaner'. There was no one she could call. No friend to talk to.
Her thumb hovered over her photo gallery, and she opened it. It was a wasteland of work-related screenshots and a few pictures of her apartment she'd taken for insurance purposes. There was no life in it.
A new kind of feeling, sharper than sadness, cut through her. It was a cold, clear-headed panic. She was twenty-nine years old, successful, and completely, utterly alone. If she kept going like this, she would die in this perfect, empty apartment, and the only person who would notice would be Mr. Veyron when she didn't show up to work.
No.
The word was a silent scream in her head. No more.
She walked over to the sleek desk in the corner of the room, pulled out a plain, leather-bound notebook—one she used for work notes—and a pen. She opened it to a fresh page. Her hand was shaking slightly as she wrote the first words at the top.
My Life To-Do List
She paused, the pen hovering over the page. What did she even want? For the first time, she let herself think about it. Not what would look successful, not what would impress anyone else. What did she want?
The list started to flow.
* Make one real friend.
* Buy an outfit that's fun, not just powerful.
* Go to a club and dance until my feet hurt.
* Read a book that has nothing to do with work or self-improvement.
* Get a different hairstyle. Something less severe.
* Try a food I've never had before.
* Go to a spa. Just to relax.
She kept writing, adding small, simple things. Learn to cook one meal well. Go to the beach. Get a manicure in a bright, stupid color.
When she was done, she stared at the list. It looked simple, almost childish. But it felt more real than anything she had achieved in the last ten years. It was a blueprint for a life.
She looked at her calendar. Friday and Saturday were work days. She would have to put the mask back on and be the perfect, efficient assistant for Damien Veyron. But Sunday… Sunday was a blank slate.
A tiny, fragile flicker of something that felt like hope sparked in her chest.
Sunday would be for her. She would start at the top of her list—or at least, the easiest parts of it. A new hairstyle. The spa. The manicure. The shopping.
She finally felt the exhaustion pull at her. She went to bed, but for the first time in a long time, it wasn't the empty, lonely exhaustion of just surviving. It was the bone-deep weariness that comes after a battle, with the quiet promise of a new day ahead.