Chapter 4: Milan Awakening
1206words
As the plane touched down, my heart hammered against my ribs. I had never been alone before—truly alone. The thought was both terrifying and exhilarating.
The terminal bustled with fashionable Italians, making me painfully aware of my appearance. I'd worn a high-necked blouse and large sunglasses, my usual armor against curious stares.
And then I saw him.
Cassian Vexley stood apart from the crowd, imposing in a charcoal suit. When our eyes met, something shifted in his expression—relief, perhaps, or something deeper that made my breath catch. He was nearly twenty years my senior, my family's enemy, and yet the sight of him made my pulse quicken in a way Orion's false attentions never had.
"You made it," he said simply, taking my small suitcase. His fingers brushed mine, and I fought the urge to pull away—not from revulsion, but from the unsettling warmth that spread through me at his touch.
"Did you doubt I would?"
"Not for a moment." The corner of his mouth lifted. "Your father, however, is currently having his men search every hotel in Paris."
The drive into the city was a blur of golden light and ancient architecture. In the confined space of the car, I was acutely aware of Cassian beside me—his steady breathing, the occasional glance he cast in my direction when he thought I wasn't looking.
The car pulled up to a narrow building in the heart of the fashion district. Ornate balconies adorned its cream-colored façade.
"Fifth floor," Cassian said, handing me a key with a small silver tag. His fingers lingered against my palm a moment too long. "Your mother purchased it under her maiden name, Elise Laurent."
The elevator was an antique cage of wrought iron. As we ascended, Cassian stood close enough that I could detect his cologne—something subtle with notes of cedar and bergamot.
"How did you arrange all this so quickly?" I asked, desperate to break the charged silence.
"I have connections in Milan. And motivation."
"What motivation?"
His eyes met mine in the confined space, dark and unreadable. "Let's just say I understand what it means to need escape." Something in his tone suggested deeper wounds, secrets that mirrored my own.
The apartment was bathed in afternoon light. High ceilings, parquet floors, and French doors opening onto a balcony that overlooked the bustling street below.
"It's perfect," I whispered.
"Your mother had excellent taste." There was something in his voice when he mentioned my mother—a note of respect, perhaps even familiarity.
I moved through the rooms until I discovered the studio. A drafting table stood before the window. Shelves lined with fabric samples, sketchbooks, and design references. A dress form waited in the corner.
"She was preparing," I said, running my fingers over the smooth surface of the drafting table. "All those years ago."
"She was a designer?"
"She wanted to be. Father wouldn't allow it." I opened a drawer, finding pristine art supplies. "He thought it beneath the Whitestone name to be associated with 'trade.'"
Cassian checked his watch. "We should go. Professor Bianchi is expecting us at the academy at four."
"Professor Bianchi?"
"The head of design at Milano Fashion Academy. I took the liberty of showing him your mother's portfolio—and yours."
My head snapped up. "Mine? How did you—"
"The night you called me, I had someone retrieve your sketchbooks from your room."
"And he wants to meet me? With these?" I gestured to my face.
Cassian stepped closer, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. For a wild moment, I thought he might touch my face. His hand lifted, hesitated, then fell back to his side.
"He wants to meet you because of your talent, Seraphina. Nothing else matters."
Professor Bianchi, a small man with expressive hands and silver-rimmed glasses, greeted us enthusiastically in his cluttered office.
"Ah! Miss Whitestone!" He kissed both my cheeks, seemingly oblivious to my scars. "Your work—magnificent! Such vision, such understanding of how fabric moves with the body!"
"Thank you," I managed, overwhelmed.
"We start new term in three weeks. But for you—for you, we make exception. You begin Monday."
I glanced at Cassian, who nodded encouragingly. The pride in his eyes made something flutter in my chest—something dangerous and forbidden.
Later, as the sun began to set, Cassian and I stood on the balcony of my new home. The city glowed golden below us.
"I have to return to London tomorrow," he said quietly.
Something sank in my chest, an emptiness I had no right to feel. "So soon?"
"My absence would raise questions. Your father already suspects I helped you."
"Will you be in danger?"
His laugh was low, almost bitter. "Frederick Whitestone doesn't frighten me."
We stood in silence, the space between us charged with unspoken words. He was Orion's uncle, my family's enemy, old enough to be inappropriate. And yet, standing beside him, I felt a connection I couldn't explain or deny.
"Seraphina," he began, then hesitated. His eyes revealed a conflict that mirrored my own. "If you need anything—anything at all—"
"I'll be fine," I interrupted, not trusting what might happen if he finished that sentence.
His hand covered mine on the balcony railing. The simple touch sent electricity through my veins. "This is just the beginning for you."
Our eyes met, and for a moment, the air between us seemed to crackle with possibility. He leaned forward slightly, and I found myself swaying toward him, drawn by some magnetic force I couldn't resist.
Then he straightened, withdrawing his hand as if burned. "I should go. You need rest."
When he left, the apartment felt suddenly empty. I wandered through the rooms, touching my mother's things, wondering about her dreams, her plans, her secrets. And wondering, too, about the man who had helped me escape—a man I should hate for his family name, a man I should not think of in the way I increasingly did.
In the bathroom, I stared at my reflection. The eyes that gazed back held determination instead of shame.
I opened my laptop and searched for dermatologists specializing in acne scarring. Then I picked up a pair of scissors from the kitchen.
Standing before the mirror, I gathered my long, unruly hair—the hair Victoria had always criticized, that Orion had pretended to admire. With one decisive cut, I watched the first lock fall to the floor.
Snip. Snip. Snip.
With each cut, I felt lighter. This wasn't about becoming beautiful for Cassian or anyone else. It was about becoming mine.
By midnight, a new woman looked back at me from the mirror—hair cropped short around my face, emphasizing my eyes rather than my scars.
For the first time in my life, I was taking control of my story.
And yet, as I crawled into bed in this strange new city, it was Cassian's face I saw when I closed my eyes—the forbidden attraction I couldn't afford to acknowledge, but couldn't seem to deny.
