Chapter 21 Jailhouse Reflection
Rain lashed against the windows of a seedy Saint–Denis hostel Zane Blackthorn huddled on a stained mattress, the reek of mildew and cheap disinfectant thick in the air. Neon signs bled through grimy glass, painting his gaunt face in garish, shifting colors.
On the nightstand, his phone glowed–a fifteenth debt–collection text:
CONCRETE OVERSHOES.]
148 HOURS, OR FOR C
His trembling hand found a half–empty bottle of rotgut whiskey. The burn down his throat mirrored the fire on the flickering TV screen:
Ivy Callahan arrested in Helvemont for transnational fraud and money laundering. Stolen funds exceed €230 million…J
The broadcast cut to Veridian Police Headquarters. Ivy, handcuffed, her once–perfect curls a wild tangle. When reporters shouted questions about the missing millions, she suddenly shrieked at the cameras.
“Zane Blackthorn ordered it! All transactions went through HIM!”
The bottle slipped from Zane’s grip, whiskey soaking into the threadbare carpet. He stared at her contorted face, hearing her last threat
echo.
“Hurt me? The Blackthorn Empire becomes my funeral pyre!”
She’d kept her promise
His phone buzzed–a bank email-
[BLACKTHORN
GROUP SHARES LIQUIDATED. ASSETS FORFEITED.)
The century–old empire was erased.
Fists hammered the door. Heavy–accented roared, “Blackthorn! Open up or we torch this shithole with you inside!”
Zane staggered to his feet. The fly–specked mirror showed a ghost–hollow eyes, streaks of premature gray in unwashed hair, the rancid stench of his ruined Brioni sult clinging like a shroud.
Glass shattered. A torch flew through the window, flames licking up the curtains. Zane grabbed his coat and bolted–colliding in the hallway with stone–faced debt collectors.
48 hours are up, Blackthorn,” the leader smirked. “Where’s the cash?A switchblade kissed his throat.
“Boss says final chance.” The blade bit deeper. “You spoiled that Callahan bitch. Get her stolen millions for us… or bleed out in this hallway.”
Zane’s laugh was a broken wheeze. “Find her yourself. Veridian Women’s Prison” Blood welled hat beneath the steel. “You’ve already taken everything else.
Police sirens
pierced the right
“Merde! Cops The thugs vanished into sinoke stairwells.
Zaneslid down the wall, fingers pressed to his bleeding neck. A sob tore loose then became a raw, gasping laugh
“I was wrong He choked into his palms. “God, I was wrong
Veridian Women’s Prison – Same Night
Ivy Callahan crouched in a visitation room corner, her manicure chipped, foundation streaked. When the guard stated no lawyer would take her case, she exploded
“DO YOU KNOW WHOAM? Water from her plastic cup splashed surveillance cameras. “I’M THE FUTURE MRS BLACKTHORN!
WHEN I GET OUT-
The guard’s syringe plunged into her arm
D
ReelShort
As chemical fog swallowed her mind, Ivy glimpsed her reflection in the safety glass:
Hair like straw. Bloodshot eyes sunk in grayish hollows. The silk dresses replaced by orange prison scrubs.
Was this her? The woman who’d made Zane Blackthorn grovel?
The steel door clanged shut. Darkness ate her screams.
Chapter 22: Constellation’s Kiss
The Lunne Ateliers Design Week cocktail hour hummed with energy. Nova was discussing fabric sourcing with Gucel’s creative director when Scarlett tapped her shoulder. “Someone you should meet.”
She turned. A man stood beneath a crystal chandelier in deep navy Tom Ford. Light carved his sharp jawline; behind gold–rimmed glasses, warm eyes held an intelligent spark
“This is my brother, Lorenzo Gabriel Rossi,” Scarlett announced with a wink. “Freshly repatriated from Veridian. Specializes in International women’s rights litigation.”
“An honor, Ms. Sterling” Lorenzo extended his hand. His palm was warm, dry. “I studied your “Phoenix‘ collection. The fractured–reborn patterns…” His gaze deepened. “Profound.”
Nova stilled.
Most praised her ethereal ‘Stardust‘ line. Few understood ‘Phoenix–its hidden narrative of marriage’s destruction and rebirth.
“You analyze design symbolism, Mr. Rossi?”
“I only bask in beautiful things.” He offered his
from the Blackthorn family’s discipline whip.
Nova instinctively pulled back.
ard. As she accepted it, his thumb grazed the faint scar on her inner wrist-a relic
His voice softened, “The scar’s flow… it mirrors the kintsugi technique in your work.”
The gala’s noise faded.
Three years. People had either pitied or probed the scar. He saw it as art.
Three months later, Nova stood before press cameras at the Song Foundation launch. Lorenzo, as legal counsel, stood protectively beside her. When a reporter snarled a barbed question-
“Ms. Sterling,” the reporter thrust a microphone forward, “is your foundation just revenge against your ex–husband?” Cameras zoomed in as he pressed, “And did you orchestrate Blackthorn Group’s collapse?”
“Chanty Law Article 17,” his voice was calm steel, “mandates rigorous state oversight for foundations.” He fixed the reporter with a cool stare. “Are you implying judicial corruption?”
The man withered into silence.
Afterward, Nova found a steaming cup of honeyed grapefruit tea in the greenroom. A note lay beneath:
(You were brilliant. Ignore the noise. I’m here.-L.)
She cradled the cup, remembering her assistant’s remark–Mr. Rossi canceled a high–stakes arbitration to attend.
Steam spiraled from her teacup as she finally studied him–the man whose gentle eyes held a quiet atfirmation whenever he looked at
her.
Late autumn Nova worked alone in her studio when the lights abruptly cut out.
“Easy “His voice cut through the darkness Lorenzo’s phone bloaned with pale light, washing, Nova’s face in a lunar glow
The sudden glow revealed him standing nearby, concern etching his features.
“Why are you here?”
Elow
“Scarlett mentioned your late nights” He lifted a thermal container. “My housekeeper’s remedy. Gentle on your stomach.”
Nova’s throat tightened.
How
many nights had she waited with similar warmth, for a ghost?
“Lorenzo.” His name felt deliberate on her tongue. “Why… all this?”
In the darkness, his hand lifted–then paused, restrained.
“Because you’re worthy,” he said simply. “No deeper calculus required.”
Simultaneously, in a sanatorium:
Zane Blackthorn–deported, diagnosed with acute delusional disorder–clutched a financial magazine. On the cover: Nova and Lorenzo, standing shoulder–to–shoulder at a charity gala.
His knuckles cracked under the strain.
A corner headline seared his vision:
[Casa Rossi Heir & Stardust Founder–Romance Blossoms?]
He scrambled for a phone, madly dialing a long–blocked number. A nurse pried it from his grip. “Medication time, Mr. Blackthorn.”
Outside, autumn leaves blazed like dying embers. For a heartbeat, he remembered–another lifetime ago, a girl waiting in the falling light, hoping he’d turn around,
Now the constellations still burned fierce above, but their light no longer touched his night.
Chapter 22 Constellation
