Chapter Two

While I drove Martha to school, my hands were on the wheel, my eyes on the road—but my mind was far away.

That text.

You think the story is over?

It looped in my head like a broken record. My chest felt tight. My fingers gripped the steering wheel too hard. Who sent it? Why now? After all this time…

“Mummy!”

Martha’s scream ripped through the car just as I snapped back to reality—and slammed the brakes.

The screech of tires, the loud honk from the car I’d nearly hit, and the rush of blood in my ears all hit at once. My heart thundered.

We’d almost crashed.

I turned to Martha.

Her eyes were wide, her face pale, hands clutching the seatbelt across her chest.

“I’m sorry,” I breathed. “Sweetheart, I’m so sorry.”

I reached for her hand.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at me like she wasn’t sure if I was still here or still lost in whatever world I’d slipped into.

“You scared me,” she whispered.

I nodded, swallowing hard. “I know. That was my fault. I wasn’t paying attention. I’m so, so sorry.”

I gave her hand a squeeze, trying to calm both of us down.

“I promise I’ll be more careful.”

She didn’t let go. Neither did I.

We drove the rest of the way in silence.

Martha didn’t speak, and neither did I. The radio played softly in the background, but I wasn’t really listening. My mind was still shaken, and I could feel her watching me from the corner of her eye.

When we finally pulled up in front of her school, I parked and turned to face her.

She was quiet, her bag already in her lap, her fingers playing with the strap.

I leaned over and tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “Hey.”

She looked up at me.

“I love you,” I said gently. “More than anything, okay?”

She nodded.

“I’m really sorry for scaring you.”

“I know,” she whispered.

I kissed her forehead and gave her the softest smile I could manage. “Have a good day. Be kind. Listen in class. No treehouse wedding talk, please.”

That made her smile, just a little.

“Okay.”

She opened the door and climbed out, then turned back one more time.

“I love you too, Mummy.”

And just like that, she ran off toward the school gate—her backpack bouncing, her curls flying behind her.

I watched until she was safely inside before letting out a slow breath.

Time to breathe. Time to think.

I reached for my handbag, pulling down the visor mirror. The faint shadows beneath my eyes didn’t surprise me—I hadn’t slept well. With practiced ease, I dabbed on a little concealer, a swipe of mascara, and a soft nude lipstick. Just enough to make me look like I had it together.

Then, my fingers moved to my hair.

Short. Always short.

I had cut it the moment I arrived in Manchester five years ago, shedding the past with every strand that fell to the floor. A fresh start. A new identity. I had kept it that way ever since—neatly styled, just above my shoulders.

It suited me.

With one final glance in the mirror, I straightened my coat and started the car. The city of Manchester unfolded before me as I navigated the familiar streets, passing towering buildings and small cafés, their windows fogged up from the morning chill.

Five years ago, I arrived here with nothing but Martha, a broken heart, and a need to start over. I had taken the money Theo gave me—700 million, an amount that once felt like shackles—and used part of it to build something of my own. A painting shop. My sanctuary.

Pulling up to the small brick building tucked between a boutique and a bookstore, I let a small sense of pride wash over me.

S. Vargas Art Studio.

My name was etched onto the glass door in elegant gold lettering.

I stepped inside, inhaling the familiar scent of paint and fresh canvas. The walls were adorned with my work—abstract swirls of emotions, haunting portraits, and serene landscapes. Art had always been my escape, my way of saying things I never could with words.

Here, no one asked about my past. No one whispered my name like it came with a warning. Here, I wasn’t Theo Rodriguez’s fiancée, or the girl who disappeared with his child. I was just Sofia Vargas—the woman who owned the little studio with the blue door and the quiet eyes.

Here, I was free.

“Nice of you to show up, boss,” Lily called from the back of the studio, her voice light and teasing.

I jumped slightly, not realizing she was already there.

“You scared me,” I said, placing my bag down near the counter.

She peeked out from behind one of the large canvases, smirking. “You looked deep in thought. What were you thinking about? Pancake recipes? Mysterious love letters? The meaning of life?”

I forced a small smile. “Something like that.”

Lily walked over, her red haired ponytail bouncing, paint smudged on her cheek like always. She was twenty-six loud, sharp, and the complete opposite of me—but somehow, we worked well together.

“Let me guess,” she said, grinning. “Martha gave you a hard time this morning?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Always,” she replied. “You’ve got that ‘my child is the boss of me’ look again.”

“She wanted to dance instead of dress for school.”

Lily laughed. “Honestly? Mood.”

I chuckled softly and turned toward the storage shelf. “What’s on the schedule today?”

“Two walk-ins booked for private lessons this afternoon. And someone called asking if we do pet portraits.”

I raised a brow. “Do we?”

She shrugged. “I told them you’d paint anything if they paid enough.”

“Accurate,” I muttered, pulling on my apron. “Thanks for opening up.”

“No problem.” She leaned against the counter, watching me. “Seriously though—you okay?”

I hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. Just tired.”

She gave me a knowing look but didn’t push. “Well, if you need me, I’ll be in the back pretending to organize supplies.”

“Just don’t spill anything this time,” I warned.

“No promises,” she said, already skipping away.

I exhaled and looked around the studio.

Bright light filtered through the windows. Paint tubes were scattered across the side table. The radio hummed in the background with soft indie music.

For a moment, it felt normal again.

Almost.

But in my pocket, my phone stayed silent.

And the message waited—like a shadow I couldn’t shake.

I pushed the thought away, grabbed a brush, and tried to paint.